


In Between Days

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Series: Ben Folds's Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M, Percy/Oliver, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein book 7 is completely ignored because wars don't tend to happen so quickly; Percy Weasley runs a safehouse [because that's as close to administrative work as you can get in a war], and everyone gets a chance to play minor character bingo. Get your cards and markers ready!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just ignore book 7. I sure did. Title taken from the Ben Folds song of the same name because I am crap at titles if left on my own. This fic would not be nearly as good without the excellent work of shoshannagold, who found the time in her incredibly insane schedule to nitpick like a champ. You are aweseomesauce, dear, and I thank you.

The _pop_ of apparition surprises him, and Percy turns on his heel, wand out. “You’re early,” he snaps.

Severus Snape brushes ash from his sleeve and gives Percy a low-level glare. “It happens when people attempt to set fire to me. Twenty-seven apples seem a lot for a pie.”

“Obviously you’ve been making them completely wrong,” Percy replies, and presses his palm to the doorframe that connects the front room to the sitting room. The shielding spells drop, and he invites Severus further into the apartment with a wave of his hand. “I was making dinner. Would you care for a drink?”

“No. I have to be elsewhere shortly.” Severus reaches into his robe and pulls out a Chocolate Frog card. He hands it to Percy. “The latest.”

Percy taps the card with his wand, and it transfigures into a single piece of parchment. He reads the information quickly. He taps his wand to the parchment, and it flashes for a moment before crumbling to ash. “What time?” He asks Severus and hands him a wrapped sandwich from the refrigerator.

“Midnight,” Severus tells him. He tucks the sandwich into his robe. “Supplies?”

“I’m stocked, thank you.”

“I’ll go then.”

Percy walks Severus back to the front room and watches him disapparate. “Good luck,” he says only after Severus has gone. He walks back into the kitchen and makes up a plate for dinner.

*

Two minutes before midnight, Percy hears another _pop_ in the front room. He walks out from the kitchen and raises his eyebrows at Oliver Wood. “Well,” he says in greeting.

Oliver takes a step back at the sight of Percy. He narrows his eyes. “Parsnip candy is a terrible idea,” he says. His wand is pointed at the middle of Percy’s chest.

“All I have are lemon drops,” Percy replies. He tucks his wand into his belt and holds up his hand as Oliver moves to cross the threshold into the sitting room. “You’ll get a nasty shock,” he says and presses his right hand against the doorjamb. “Now,” he tells Oliver.

Oliver walks into the sitting room and turns around to watch the shielding spells snap back into place. “Very nice,” he says with a nod. He looks at Percy again. “Your idea?”

“Partially,” Percy admits. He looks Oliver up and down, noting the slight shabbiness to his sweater and the mud on the cuffs of his jeans. “Bathroom’s through the middle room and on the left. There’s a pair of pajamas on the sink; you can size them as you need them, and the towels are tucked in the nook next to the toilet.”

Oliver blinks, then grins. “A real live hot shower?”

“And dinner, if you’ve had none.” Percy smiles a little at the tired joy that settles onto Oliver’s face. “Pot roast,” he tells him, just to watch Oliver’s grin widen.

“That sounds…” Oliver shakes his head. “Safehouse, hot shower, pot roast, and Percy Weasley looking comfortable. I must be dreaming.”

Percy glances down at himself, wondering how he looks “comfortable”. “No dream, I assure you. Simply three days of rest and a brush-up. The information I received said you needed a quick refresher on some Muggle habits.”

Oliver cocks his head. “How much should I tell you?”

“Decide after you eat,” Percy instructs. “I’ve found most people say entirely too much on an empty stomach.”

“I’m going to shower first,” Oliver says and turns on his heel to walk to the bathroom. He pauses at the doorway that connects the sitting room to the middle room. “Is this one going to shock me?”

“No,” Percy replies. “Only this door,” he gestures to the first doorway, “is constantly shielded.” Percy shakes his head in amusement as Oliver puts one foot over the threshold gingerly. “Honestly,” he mutters.

Oliver glances over his shoulder. “Hey, I’ve spent—” He snaps his mouth shut at the stern look Percy gives him. “Shower, food, and then conversation?”

“I find that’s usually the best course of action,” Percy agrees.

Oliver’s eyes narrow. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough,” Percy says and meets Oliver’s measuring look with the blandest face he can make.

“Hmm,” Oliver murmurs and walks to the bathroom.

Percy rolls his shoulders and breathes out slowly. He listens to Oliver start the water in the bathroom, and then he walks into the kitchen to get a plate from the cupboard. The microwave dings, and Percy opens the door to see Minerva’s face hovering in the interior. “Minerva,” Percy greets with a nod.

“Percy,” Minerva replies, her voice wavers as her face ripples for a moment. “Wood has arrived?”

“Directly on-time,” Percy tells her. “How much can I know?”

“As much as you care to hear, as always.” Minerva’s face ripples again. “I’ll send Wood’s next assignment in three days.”

“I’ll get his Muggle lessons refreshed,” Percy says. “And make sure he gets some sleep.”

“He’ll need fresh clothes. I’ll have the money sent in the morning.”

“My budget is—”

“Ridiculously under control, I’m certain, but those funds are for your household expenses to keep up your cover,” Minerva interrupts. “The funds I am sending tomorrow are to be spent solely on Wood’s new wardrobe. Not one bit of your personal funds should be used for this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Percy tells her, scuffing his foot against the kitchen floor. “My apologies, Minerva.”

“I appreciate your continued attempts to help even more,” Minerva says, the twinkle in eye clear even through the rippling. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Goodnight, Minerva.”

“Goodnight, Percy.”

Percy closes the microwave door as Minerva’s face blurs out. He dishes pot roast and vegetables onto a plate for Oliver and looks over when Oliver pads into the kitchen, shirtless and still drying his hair.

“I can’t tell you how good that felt,” Oliver says, his smile widening when Percy holds out the plate. “Or how good this is going to taste.”

“Thank you,” Percy replies. He gestures towards the middle room. “You can sit at the table. Do you want something to drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Milk, juice, water, tea, and a small arsenal of necessary libations.” Percy says the last as he opens the cupboard above the sink and shows Oliver the collection of alcoholic options.

Oliver blinks at the liquor supply. “I don’t know that I—”

“Three days off,” Percy interrupts. “You’re allowed a drink or two for services rendered.”

Oliver laughs, starting low in his chest. “Percy Weasley, I never would have thought.”

Percy chuckles. “Neither would I. Whiskey? Vodka? Tequila?”

“Do you have orange juice?”

“Screwdriver or Tequila Sunrise?”

Oliver laughs again. “Bartender’s choice, I suppose.”

Percy listens to him walk into the middle room and settle at the table while he mixes a screwdriver for Oliver and a Tequila Sunrise for himself. He carries them both to the table and sits across from Oliver. Oliver’s already halfway through his dinner, and Percy takes a moment to look him over carefully. He looks thinner than Percy remembers him being in school, and there’s a bright pink scar crossing his collarbone. “I spoke with Minerva,” he tells Oliver once Oliver pushes his plate away.

“You have a Floo here?” Oliver asks, craning his neck to see into the sitting room.

“Hermione rigged something similar with the microwave,” Percy explains. “If you need to reach a member of the Order, open the door and press the ‘popcorn’ button twice.”

Oliver blinks. “You are not serious.”

Percy grins. “I very much am.”

“Spend six straight months finding information and running messages…” Oliver mutters and trails off. He shakes his head. “How long have you been here?”

“Nearly nine months,” Percy replies. “How long have you been spying?”

“Almost a year.” Oliver leans his chin on his fist and sips his drink. He closes his eyes and sighs. “That’s really good.”

“Thank you.”

“As was dinner.”

“Thank you,” Percy replies again.

“Is this what you do?” Oliver asks, looking at his empty plate. “You feed and water field agents for the Order?”

“Close enough,” Percy says with a nod. “I also perform some minor healing and prepare potions as necessary.”

“Last I’d heard, you’d been sacked from the Ministry for insubordination,” Oliver tells him with his eyebrows raised. “Rumor mill says you hexed the Minster of the Treasury and set half your documents aflame.”

“Oh, good,” Percy deadpans, “that’s still sticking.”

Oliver narrows his eyes. “There’s not a drop of truth in any of that, is there?”

Percy crosses his arms. “Is there?”

“No,” Oliver says after a pause. “Maybe not,” he amends after a moment. He shrugs when Percy gives him a questioning look. “Last I knew you, we were seventeen, and it was a very different world out there.”

“Yes, it was,” Percy agrees. He takes a sip of his drink and leans forward in his chair. “All the dramatics went down precisely as you heard them.”

“But it was just dramatics,” Oliver says slowly. He nods to himself and looks away from Percy. “It’s ridiculously perfect,” he says quietly. “Half the school always figured you’d crack under your own pressure one day.”

“And that makes the story believable.”

Oliver throws himself against the back of his chair and tucks his hands behind his head. “And then Minerva threw you here.”

“I offered,” Percy corrects. He stares at the rivulets of grenadine that are slowly trailing to the bottom of his glass. “I waited too long to be useful as a spy in the Ministry, and after the Death Eaters came to the Burrow…” He looks at Oliver and shrugs. “There are only so many administrative positions one can get in a time of war.”

The smile drops from Oliver’s face. “They attacked the Burrow?”

“Everyone’s in one piece,” Percy assures him. “We nearly lost Fred, but some quick work by Mum and Bill got the curse off him. He doesn’t even have a scar.”

“Course not,” Oliver says with a grin. “Then you’d be able to tell him and George apart.”

Percy chuckles. “I suppose so.”

Oliver yawns and covers his mouth. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “You’re not uninteresting—”

“I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been awake,” Percy cuts in. “Come on, I’ll show you where to sleep.” He leads Oliver past the kitchen to the back room. “It’s charmed,” he says at Oliver’s wide-eyed stare. “Any Muggle looking in would only see enough space for a double-sized bed.”

Oliver looks down the row at the fourteen beds that are lined up on one wall. “Nice trick. This one yours?”

“Yes,” Percy says proudly. “It took a bit of doing, but it’s proved incredibly useful.”

“This is amazing, Perce,” Oliver says sincerely. He grips Percy’s shoulder and gives it a shake. “Really. All of this. I’ve been in and out of safehouses since I started spying, and yours is the best.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, not quite able to make eye contact. He flinches when his shoulder jerks in Oliver’s hand.

“You all right?” Oliver asks, moving his hand away slowly.

“Repeated jelly-arm and _Crucio_,” Percy explains, tucking his arm in tight against his stomach. “During the attack at the Burrow, it was a favorite combination of a few of them. The jelly-arm makes your muscles wobble—”

“And that lets the _Crucio_ tighten everything tighter,” Oliver finishes. “I’ve seen it a few times myself. There’s a potion for it that stops the tremors.”

“I’ve taken it today,” Percy tells him. “And yesterday and everyday since I saw the first healer. The potion isn’t strong enough to keep it under control all of the time.”

“Damn,” Oliver mutters. “Is that why you’re here running this place?” he asks.

Percy shrugs and grips his left hand around his right arm as it jerks again. “I like it here,” he says truthfully. “The results of my work are obvious, and I’ve never had the talent for lying that spying takes.”

“You’ve always had a knack for paperwork, though.”

“I have.” Percy nudges Oliver when he yawns again. “To bed. You’re no good for training if you’re mostly asleep tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver grouses and picks a bed halfway down the row. “Night, Percy.”

“Good night, Oliver.”

*

Percy wakes up the next morning to rhythmic grunting. He rolls over in his bed—the one closest to the door—and watches Oliver do push-ups.

“Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…”

Oliver counts under his breath, grunting on every push up from the floor.

“Good morning,” Percy says as he sits up. He yawns and stretches, grimacing when his right arm spasms again.

“Thirty-morning…thirty-three,” Oliver responds.

Percy showers and dresses in khaki pants and a gray T-shirt. When he walks back into the bedroom to make his bed, Oliver has moved on to sit-ups. “Do you have a preference for breakfast?” He asks as he snaps out the wrinkles in his top sheet.

“What…nineteen…are my options…twenty.”

“Cold cereal,” Percy grins at the face Oliver pulls. “Too much like rations?”

“Twenty-four…rations suck…twenty-five.”

“Eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit?” Percy offers.

“Twenty-eight…really…twenty-nine.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Thirty-two…please,” Oliver says with a smile.

Percy finishes making his bed and leaves Oliver to transfigure a bedside table into a chin-up bar. He froths eggs in a bowl, adds some cheese, and is carefully laying out bacon in a second pan when Oliver walks out of the back room. “You need another shower,” Percy tells him.

“After breakfast.” Oliver watches Percy put toast in the toaster and raises his eyebrows when Percy uses a knife to slice strawberries. “Full Muggle, then?”

“The less magic I use outside of necessity, the better hidden this place can be,” Percy explains. He shakes his head at Oliver’s sudden blanching. “One chin-up bar won’t blow the wards.”

“It can’t help.” Oliver steps aside to let Percy open the refrigerator. “How’d you get like this?” He asks after a moment. “You’re so…relaxed, and you run a fair chance of someone blowing your head to bits if something slips.”

Percy pauses, hand on the orange juice, and turns his head to look at Oliver. “There’s a war on,” he says seriously. “There’s nothing to be done about that, but I can do something about this place and how I run it.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Definitely not the Percy I remember.” His smile makes it a compliment.

“I remember Oliver Wood being obsessed with Quidditch,” Percy tells him. “I wouldn’t have given you credit to have the talents needed for spying.”

“It’s just a different kind of strategy,” Oliver replies. “Except it’s seven blokes or more trying to knock my head off for real, and there’s no good way to keep score.”

“You’ve made it a year running about keeping your head on. That’s a pretty good score.”

Oliver grins. “Suppose so.” He watches Percy adjust the heat on the stove. “For the record,” he says when Percy reaches for glasses, “you weren’t so bad when you were Percy at Hogwarts.”

Percy turns his head, but he knows the blush shows on the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome.” Oliver steps forward and takes the glass Percy hands to him. “So, what’s my agenda today?”

“You’ll have to tell me. Minerva’s cleared you to inform me of anything you need. She says your next assignment is coming in three days, but I assume you have some idea of what that assignment is if you need training.”

“I got hold of some information a couple of weeks ago that told us You Know—Voldemort,” Oliver corrects with a grimace, “is starting to use Muggles as part of his army.”

Percy pauses in transferring the eggs to plates. “Muggles? For what purpose?”

“There’s some fad called ‘alternative’,” Oliver explains. “Dean Thomas—you remember?” Oliver waits for Percy’s nod. “He says it’s where Muggles with no problems pretend like they want them. Voldemort’s started allowing Muggle-borns to join up with him—” Oliver breaks into a laugh at the shock on Percy’s face. “Haven’t heard that yet, have you?”

Percy blinks a few times. “It hasn’t come through,” he says after he swallows. “That goes against his entire—”

“Wand fodder,” Oliver interrupts. “If Muggle-borns want to run in first, it saves a few Purebloods from possible death.” Oliver jumps a little when Percy slams the glasses onto the counter.

“Sorry,” Percy says after a moment. “It makes the same sort of sense as everything else.”

“Yeah,” Oliver’s face drops at the implication. He runs a hand over his hair and sighs heavily. “These kids, the ones in the fad, Voldemort is going to convince them that he’ll teach them magic—that anyone can learn it—and when they show up, they’ll throw _Imperius_ over all of them.”

“And send them into the Muggle areas for the dirty work.”

“Pretty much.”

Percy smiles a little at Oliver’s surprised look. “I’ve no talent for spying, but I’ve always been very good at logic puzzles.”

“The logic of this is a bit sick,” Oliver mutters and takes the plate Percy hands him.

“What do you know about alternative?” Percy asks as they settle at the table.

“I have a few descriptions, and Dean showed me some pictures, but I don’t have any in-depth research.” Oliver raises his eyebrows when Percy smiles. “And we’re back in your territory, aren’t we?”

“I do a bit more than feeding and watering,” Percy tells him.

Oliver swallows a bite of bacon and spears a strawberry slice. “You’re pretty good at the first two.”

Percy concentrates on carefully cutting his bacon. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“There it is,” Oliver says quietly.

Percy looks up from his bacon. “What?”

“I was…” Oliver clears his throat and taps his fork on his plate. “Sorry. I’m just a little surprised at how…un-you…you are.”

“Have I really changed so much?” Percy’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks down again.

Oliver stares at his plate and tries to figure out how to explain it. “We were seventeen,” he says after a moment. “And maybe the Percy I remember isn’t quite correct, but he was never as relaxed as you.”

“The Oliver I remember wasn’t nearly as serious,” Percy replies. He looks up and meets Oliver’s eyes. “Maturity,” he says and pulls a face; crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

Oliver laughs. “That, I remember. I can’t believe no one ever caught you out making faces. Fred and George couldn’t get away with anything—”

“They got away with plenty,” Percy interrupts.

“But not nearly as much as you.”

“Because I actually used the decorum I was taught as a child.” Percy shakes his head at the memories.

“Do they have any idea what you used to pull in our room?”

“If I told them, they’d never take me seriously.”

Oliver takes a bite of bacon and watches Percy eat a piece of strawberry. “They’re high-up in the Order,” he says conversationally. “So are Bill and Charlie and Ginny. Ron’s not listed, but I assume there’s a good reason for that.”

“There is,” Percy confirms. “You’re ranked near the twins, you know.”

“So they tell me.” Oliver shrugs at Percy’s surprised look. “I don’t have a concept of it. I’m out there, and then I’m in a safehouse. And then I’m out again.”

“Speaking of,” Percy says, “we still need to get you prepared to go again. Finish your breakfast; I’m going to start researching.” He takes his plate into the sitting room and sets it in the middle of the coffee table. He hears Oliver chuckle when he pulls a laptop from under the couch. “You know what this is, I suppose?”

“I’m surprised you do.” Oliver looks at his plate, eyes the state of the carpet, and carries his breakfast into the sitting room so he can sit next to Percy. He looks over Percy’s shoulder as he opens an Internet browser. “Be honest; your dad’s Muggle craziness finally came in handy, didn’t it?”

Percy straightens his glasses on his nose and looks at Oliver in his peripheral vision. “Perhaps,” he admits. “But if he asks, I had to go through extensive training that I don’t have time to teach him.”

“You should feel bad.”

“You didn’t have to grow up around dismantled toasters,” Percy responds, but the serious look falls off his face when a picture finishes loading on his computer. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Bad news?” Oliver asks, leaning in closer.

“Not for me,” Percy replies. “But I hope you’re very good at dressing like a complete spanner.”

“I’ve done—you are joking,” Oliver’s mouth hangs open as he stares at the picture. “He’s wearing _glitter_.”

“And so will you,” Percy says brusquely. He meets Oliver’s shocked look with a stern glare. “You’re a spy. This is what you do.”

Oliver groans. “There’s a limit—”

“There is not,” Percy interrupts. “Members of the Order must be willing to do anything necessary to procure information and bring forth the end of Voldemort.”

“I’ve read the oath, too,” Oliver snaps, “but I’m allowed to not want to look like a wanker.”

“But you will,” Percy says flatly.

“Yes, sir, Prefect Percy,” Oliver replies.

Percy’s shoulders stiffen. “If that—”

“Joking,” Oliver says, holding up a hand. “Really,” he adds when Percy gives him a look.

“I spend a great deal of time explaining to people what they’ve promised to do,” Percy says sharply. “I can’t take the chance that someone is joking or not willing to follow through. It’s all too important.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m in, Percy. I’ve been in, and I’m staying in. I just didn’t expect my duties to require,” he points at the computer screen, “that.”

Percy rolls his shoulders to drop the tension. “My apologies.”

“Me, too,” Oliver says. “Just know that even if I’m squawking, I’m still in all the way.”

“I’ll remember,” Percy tells him. He sticks the last piece of bacon between his teeth and hands Oliver his plate. “I can finish the research if you’ll do the washing up.”

“On it,” Oliver says and stands up from the couch.

*

Oliver’s orders show up in the freezer bright and early on the third day. Percy hands them to him and watches him read. “Any good news?” He asks when Oliver sets the scroll aflame.

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me anything.” Percy follows Oliver to the sitting room and reaches around him to press his hand to the doorjamb. “Off you go then,” he says, his gaze just over Oliver’s left shoulder.

Oliver runs his hand through his spiked-up hair and adjusts the leather bracelet on his wrist. “I look like a complete cunt, don’t I?”

Percy knows Oliver’s trying to lighten the mood. “I like the bracelet,” he says. He tilts his head. “You’ve got places to be.”

“It was good to see you,” Oliver says as he walks into the front room. “Any messages for anyone I might see?”

“Tell my parents I’m fine,” Percy requests. He holds up a hand in a wave and watches Oliver apparate away. “Good luck,” he mutters to the empty room.

*

Minerva usually doesn’t send Percy names. It’s safer if all anyone ever finds are vague bits of information. She does tell him when she’s sending the twins. “They’re family,” she’d said when Percy had objected the first time, “and I think we can agree that a welcoming face is never a bad thing.”

Fred and George apparate in an hour later than Minerva’s report said to expect them. Percy is pacing the sitting room when he hears the _pop_, and he whirls on his heel to yell at them, wand up in case it’s a trick. They look exhausted, and there’s blood under George’s left ear. Percy has to stop himself from immediately dropping the shielding spells.

“I saw a lass with hair of brass as she sat on the grass,” Fred says, his arm tight around George’s side. His wand is pointed directly at Percy’s head.

“Poetry isn’t supposed to rhyme,” Percy replies and presses his hand to the doorjamb. He hurries to George’s other side and helps Fred carry him to the back room. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. Explosions. You know how they are.”

“Were you successful?” Percy doesn’t have to look over to know that Fred is grinning.

“Of course. We’re brilliant.”

Percy almost tells Fred he doesn’t look it, but it’s not an insult worth using. “What happened to George?”

“Got clocked on the head with a rock. He snapped a Death Eater’s wand, and the man was none too happy.”

“Any magic in the rock?”

“Nope.” Fred takes all of George’s weight to lay him on the bed second-closest to the door of the back room.

“I have to check him for concussion. Wet a cloth in the sink and bring juice.” Percy sits next to George as Fred bustles in the kitchen. He slaps George lightly until George opens his eyes. “Were you hexed?” Percy asks.

“Rock,” George mutters. He leans his head into Percy’s hand. “Big rock.”

Fred walks back into the room and hands Percy the cool cloth. He sits on the other side of George and gets him to sip the juice while Percy cleans the blood from under George’s ear. The cut is shallow, and the blood is mostly dried. Percy presses his wand against George’s temple and feels a weight come off his chest when the tip glows white. “No concussion,” he says quietly. “And the cut is minor.”

“Told you,” Fred tells George triumphantly, but Percy can see his hands shaking.

“You both need a shower,” he says as he stands. “And a hot meal, most likely.”

“You sound like Mum,” Fred teases. “Going to check behind our ears for dirt?”

“Found enough behind your ears tonight.” Percy holds up the cloth. “So shower, eat, and then to bed.”

“Okay,” George says quietly, and Percy knows he must be completely exhausted and sore not to tease him. “Our report—”

“You leave tomorrow at two. I’ll get you up early for the details.” Percy crosses his arms and taps his foot until they get up and walk into the bathroom. He gathers their clothes while they shower and throws them into the washer, trying to ignore the muck on the knees and elbows. They were on the ground at some point, the clothes tell him, and he wonders how close they came this time.

*

Fred and George report the facts in a subdued tone that tells Percy it was even worse than he’d pictured. If they have a good run, the reports take hours, as they veer into stories and jokes. If they have a bad run, it’s a matter of minutes, and the report for their latest attempts takes only twelve. Percy makes them tea with honey and pretends not to notice them curling around him like parentheses when he sits on the couch to read.

“Do you need anything before you go?” He asks at half-past one.

“We’re full up,” George tells him. “We’ll pick up rations at base before we’re out again.”

Percy wants to ask where they’re going, but he knows they won’t tell. Nearly everyone else gives him at least some detail, but the twins simply read their orders, set them on fire, and change the subject.

“No socks need darning? You don’t need more healing salve or energy potions?”

“We’re covered,” Fred says. “But aren’t you just a polite young man to ask with such concern. Really, George, have you ever met a nicer boy?”

“I could just pinch his cheeks,” George replies.

They’re still heckling Percy when they apparate, and he sighs heavily once they’re gone. “Good luck.”

*

Draco Malfoy shows up, moves the microwave to the counter, transfigures the microwave cart into a fireplace, and spends four days making potions. Percy makes stew and bakes bread and puts Draco’s preferred tea on the counter with a large mug and an empty bowl.

“Help yourself,” he instructs Draco, and spends the days reading books about Muggle history and patching the holes in the clothes people leave behind.

“Weasley,” Draco says with a nod as he leaves.

“Malfoy,” Percy responds and watches him apparate. “Good luck.”

*

“I have to shop for supplies,” Percy tells Minerva one morning. “I’ve got enough for another three days, but I wanted to give you warning in case you need to redirect anyone.”

“I only have one scheduled in for you for the next three days. Tomorrow, mid-afternoon.”

“I’ll shop after the arrival, then,” Percy says.

“Are you well?” Minerva asks. She asks every few weeks. Percy has come to realize she only asks when she knows he’s alone.

“Fine,” he answers, as he always does.

“And your arm?”

“No extra trouble,” Percy assures her.

*

His new charge is Justin Finch-Fletchley. He’s been in before, and his hands are in his pockets when Percy walks into the sitting room from the kitchen. “I was going to Rome,” Justin says, “but I think I took a wrong turn.”

“Always turn left,” Percy replies and presses his hand to the doorjamb. “You should have your wand out until you’re certain I’m trustworthy,” Percy tells him. He tells him every time.

Justin shrugs. “If you’d switched sides, you wouldn’t wait for me to open my mouth.”

“Having your wand out is common sense,” Percy says. “You’re putting yourself at a very high risk by being so casual.”

“I knew I was coming here,” Justin tells him. “I was giving information to Minerva right before I apparated here, so I knew it was going to be you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Until you hear the word, your wand stays out.”

“All right,” Justin says, waving a hand in a casual dismissal that makes Percy wonder how much longer it will be before Justin’s name shows up on the daily scroll of the missing.

“I have to buy supplies,” he says rather than lecture. Justin has never listened to any of Percy’s warnings about protecting himself. “You’ll have to come with.”

*

Oliver shows up again as Percy’s half-past eleven on a Tuesday morning. His wand is out, but a grin breaks across his face at the sight of Percy. “I saw the stars from London Tower,” he says.

“But the moon was down in the river,” Percy replies. He drops the shielding spell and looks Oliver over for damage. He’s wearing black boots, black jeans, a belt with silver studs, a navy blue shirt with white, curly line art, and three leather bracelets on his left wrist. There’s glitter in his hair and his eyes are rimmed with liner. “You look tired,” Percy tells him.

Oliver rubs at his eyes, smearing eyeliner across his cheek. “I look ridiculous.”

Percy smiles a little. “A bit, yes.” He grimaces when Oliver scratches his scalp and glitter falls onto the carpet. “Shower’s still to the left.”

“Thank Merlin.” Oliver stops outside the bathroom door and cranes his neck to see Percy. “I spoke with Minerva a week ago. She says I can give my information to you if you want to hear it.”

There’s a heaviness in Oliver’s tone that almost makes Percy refuse. He’s not required to hear where they’ve been, but it helps Minerva and the others if they can get clear, concise reports on a first try. It’s why he puts up with the meandering versions Fred and George sometimes give him. “After your shower. I was planning sandwiches for lunch.”

“Ham if you’ve got it,” Oliver says as he closes the bathroom door.

Percy makes ham sandwiches and opens a bag of crisps. He listens to Oliver mutter to himself in the shower and hunts up a pair of plain blue jeans and a red T-shirt that he thinks are about Oliver’s size. “Clothes by the door!” He yells as he sets them down.

“Thank you!”

Oliver comes out of the bathroom in the jeans and T-shirt and smiles when Percy hands him his plate. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Percy watches Oliver take a bite of his sandwich. “Does anyone eat out there?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“Hmm?” Oliver asks around another bite of his sandwich.

“No one’s ever come in on the first day and eaten slowly,” Percy explains. “I’ve been wondering if there’s some issue with the rations of which I’m not aware.”

“No,” Oliver says around another bite. He chews, swallows, and wipes at the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand. “The rations are filling, but they taste like old socks.”

“Flattering,” Percy says, biting into a crisp. “My culinary skills are less terrible than the taste of old socks.”

“They’re slightly more than that.” Oliver tosses the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

“Thank my mother if you see her. It’s all her recipes.”

“Do you see her often?” Oliver makes a face after he asks. “Sorry. That’s probably not my business.”

“I don’t see her,” Percy answers. “Nor the rest of the family.”

“None of them?”

“No,” Percy says, making sure to look Oliver in the eyes. Telling Oliver he sees the twins regularly puts the twins at risk if Oliver gets captured. “There are messages occasionally, from other people who come here.”

“My parents are hidden somewhere,” Oliver tells him quietly. “The Order placed them somewhere in case I’m ever captured.”

“Do you get to talk to them?”

“I get updates,” Oliver says and rubs his hand across his mouth. “Think I’ll make a cup of tea,” he half-mutters and turns away from Percy.

Percy breathes in slowly through his nose and watches Oliver open cupboards. “The tea cups are hung over the sink,” he says quietly and shares a knowing smile when Oliver looks at him, embarrassed. He steps around Oliver and walks into the sitting room to pick up a pad of paper and a Quick-Quotes Quill. He sits at the dining table and waits for Oliver to join him. “Start whenever you want. I’ll ask questions for any information I think requires more detail.”

“Okay,” Oliver says with a nod. He breathes in and out a few times before nodding at Percy. Percy taps the Quick-Quotes Quill, and it stands up straight, the edge of the plume quivering in readiness.

“Is that thing reliable?” Oliver asks, eyeing the quill as it scratches across the paper.

Percy holds up the paper. The incredibly precise handwriting reads, ‘Is that thing reliable?’. “I recal—” Percy plucks the quill off the table as it tries to write into the tabletop. “I recalibrated it myself.”

“I knew I recognized the handwriting.” Oliver’s smile slides into a serious expression when Percy resets the quill. He breathes slowly again and starts talking. It’s names, dates, and locations for nearly an hour. Oliver gives detailed descriptions of all the houses, apartments, and clubs he’s seen, and he’s starting descriptions of the Muggles he’s been talking to when Percy holds up a hand.

“Pause,” Percy says, and the quill falls over like it’s fainting. Percy stands up and takes Oliver’s tea cup. “More?”

“Please,” Oliver says and rests his head in his hands. “You haven’t asked any questions.”

“You haven’t required any,” Percy explains as he pours hot water from the kettle and pulls a tea bag from one of the boxes in the cupboard. “I think it’s your Quidditch experience.”

“Huh?” Oliver looks confused when Percy hands him his tea.

“You always knew who was where on the Quidditch pitch. You’ve retained your eye for detail.”

“Thank you,” Oliver says and stirs his tea. “The next part is going to be a bit rough,” he admits as Percy takes his seat again. “The people I met, it’s painful…do you remember Ian?”

Percy thinks for a moment. “Ian McCormick?” Oliver’s nod brings up a memory for Percy. “He was in our year. He left…third year?”

“Halfway through. He was one of the reserve Beaters for Gryffindor his second and third year.”

“I don’t recall why he left.”

“Homesickness,” Oliver tells him. “We were friends, a little. He told me during practice once that he and his parents didn’t really talk, but that he wanted to be near them anyway. I thought it was strange, you know, that you’d want to be near people you didn’t get along with.”

“I had a falling out with the family when I left Hogwarts,” Percy says. “I understand it a little.”

“The twins mentioned it to me.” Oliver sips his tea. “I almost didn’t believe it.”

“Neither did I.” Percy looks away from Oliver’s slightly pained smile.

Oliver taps his fingers against his tea cup, and they sit in a slightly awkward silence for a few seconds. “These people remind me of Ian. Something’s wrong, down deep, and all they really want is to go home. Ian could go home but they…can’t. So they dress like idiots and listen to terrible music and act like they’re too cool for everything.”

Percy thinks of the way he used put so much energy into legislation about cauldron bottoms and wishes he’d gotten a cup of tea for himself. “So they’re turning to the unknown.”

“The darker the better,” Oliver confirms. “I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “I can’t give myself away. I have to pretend like I want to go with them, and I’m…” Oliver sips his tea and stares into his cup. “I’m scared,” he says so quietly that Percy almost doesn’t hear him. “I’m fairly certain they’re all going to die, and they won’t even know it wasn’t their choice.”

Percy watches the way Oliver’s hands clench around his tea cup. He looks at the Quick-Quotes Quill, and then at Oliver’s face. He looks relaxed, but his shoulders are rolled forward. “Do you remember,” Percy asks slowly, “sixth year during Christmas break?”

Oliver looks up from his tea cup, eyebrows raising. “Which part?”

“The part we didn’t talk about later,” Percy says. His right arm twitches, and he tucks it close to his side. “If you were interested, I mean.”

Oliver blinks. He swallows. “Is this a…regular service you provide?”

Percy can feel the blush rushing over his cheeks. “No,” he snaps. “I just—” He presses his lips together. “It’s very hard to sit and listen when people tell me what’s happening,” he says after a moment, staring at the individual feathers on the quill. “I get reports, but they’re very…dry. It’s names and locations and estimated times for people showing up here to get some rest. And you’re my—we were friends. Fairly casual, obviously, as our pastimes were so different at school, but we were friends, and I think we’re friends now—”

“Yes,” Oliver interrupts and stands up. He takes the two steps to stand in front of Percy’s chair and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he says when Percy doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to imply…I was surprised, is all.” He touches his foot to Percy’s, and Percy finally looks up at him. “Yes,” Oliver repeats.

“All right,” Percy says and makes himself stand up.

There’s a long, quiet moment where they just look at each other. Percy realizes Oliver has a faint scar over his left eyebrow that he doesn’t remember at the same time Oliver leans down and kisses him.

“Oh,” Percy breathes out, and grabs hold of Oliver’s T-shirt as he presses up to deepen the kiss. Oliver tugs at Percy’s T-shirt, and Percy allows himself to be pulled from the middle room, through the kitchen, and into the back room. Oliver pushes him onto a bed, straddles his hips, and smiles down at Percy as he leans forward to place his hands on either side of Percy’s head.

“Thank you,” Oliver says quietly, and then it’s just sensation.

*

“You have a report to finish,” Percy mutters later, his right arm and left cheek pressed against Oliver’s shoulder blade.

“Yeah,” Oliver breathes out. He turns on his side and looks at Percy. An embarrassed smile slides across his face. “Um…I might have bitten you,” he says, not quite able to meet Percy’s eyes.

Percy looks down at himself. There are half a dozen places on his chest and stomach that are slightly red and welted. “So you did.” He looks at Oliver and shrugs. “It’ll all be under my clothes.”

“You…” Oliver shakes his head and flops onto his back. “You’re so relaxed. For you, I mean. It’s weird.”

“Good weird?”

Oliver turns his head and grins. “Yeah, it’s a good weird.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll take it, then.” Percy makes himself sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Report,” he says without looking at Oliver. “The sooner the better.”

“I know.” Oliver heaves a sigh and stares at the ceiling. “Give me five minutes?”

“Four,” Percy replies, and stands up from the bed. “Four-and-a-half if you’ll make us both tea.”

“Deal,” Oliver agrees.

*

Oliver leaves the next morning, hair re-spiked and all his jewelry back in place. “Thanks for everything,” he says to Percy as he steps into the front room.

“Be careful,” Percy responds.

“Maybe I’ll see you soon.” Oliver’s smile is forced as he apparates away.

“Good luck,” Percy mutters and walks to the back room to strip the beds.

*

Seamus Finnigan apparates in when Percy’s expecting no one. “Tomorrow, four o’clock, three,” he says, and then he’s gone again.

It bothers Percy to get arrival information so tersely. If someone delivers it like Seamus just has, it means everything’s going sideways. He clenches his fist when his right arm shakes and spends an hour flipping through cookbooks trying to decide what to make for the next arrivals.

*

Severus shows up at four o’clock exactly, gives the password, and has only crossed the threshold into the sitting room when the twins apparate in. Percy wants to ask if they’ve all been working together, but he offers them dinner instead.

They’re ahead of him as they walk into the kitchen, and Percy gets a crawling feeling up the back of his neck right before he hears another _pop_. He spins on his heel, sees a dozen hooded people, and slams the side of his fist against the doorjamb of the middle room. All the door shields shimmer into place as the Death Eaters bombard the front room doorway with hexes and charms.

“Go!” Percy shouts as he turns around. He’s not surprised to see no sign of Severus. The twins are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway of the kitchen, and Percy shoves at them as he hears the front room shielding spells crack. “I said go!”

“We—” Fred and George start in unison.

“It’s an order!”

“We can—”

Percy grabs them both by the neck of their T-shirts and disapparates them as a group. They nearly fall onto Severus when they apparate into the front room of another safehouse.

“Mr. Weasly,” Severus greets, “if you could.” He waves a hand at the doorjamb connecting the front room to the sitting room.

Percy roughly lets go of the twins and presses his hand to the doorjamb. The shielding spells drop, and Severus gives him a nod as he walks by.

“Wait,” Fred says as he looks around. “I think we’ve been here before.”

George turns in a slow circle. “I think we just came from here.”

“And you’re damned lucky you did,” Percy snaps, whirling to face them. “When I give you an order, you _follow_ it! There’s no protecting me! There’s no waiting to fight! When a safehouse is compromised, all field agents are required to disapparate _immediately_!”

“But we—” George starts.

“No!” Percy yells. “You do _not_ argue with me when I give you a direct order!”

“We wanted to help!” Fred yells in response. “So sorry we didn’t want you dead!” His voice breaks on the last word.

“Yeah, we’re bastards,” George adds angrily.

Percy breathes in hard through his nose. “I have a responsibility,” he says, his voice quieter, but still sharp. “And you’re part of it. Everyone that shows up, they’re my responsibility, and for this to work, for all those people to stay safe, all of you have to listen to me. Even the two of you.”

Fred and George look at one another, then at Percy. “Sorry,” Fred mumbles.

“Yeah, sorry,” George echoes.

“You have to listen,” Percy repeats. “Everyone is at risk when you don’t. Not just me, and not just you.”

“Okay.” George holds up a hand. “We get it. We’re sorry. We’ll listen.”

“But, seriously,” Fred says, “didn’t we just leave this place?”

Percy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes and no,” he says after a brief internal debate about whether or not to smack Fred on the back of the head. “It’s a bit of trickery put together by Hermione and some others. I’m not explaining it to you. I have to figure out how this happened.”

“We really are sorry,” Fred says as Percy walks through the sitting room. “But you’re our brother.”

It makes Percy pause. “And you’re mine. And I’m older.”

“You outrank us,” Fred says. “Got it.”

*

The answers aren’t there, Percy finds out. It doesn’t matter how much he and Severus yell through the microwave. No one has an explanation for how they were found. Severus mutters under his breath as he brews gallons of Pepper-Up on a transfigured bit of counter. The twins play Muggle cards at the table, and Percy remakes the chicken and vegetables he’d had in the oven at the other house.

Bill and Lupin show up as Percy is pulling the chicken from the oven, and they comb over the wards, checking for anything out of the ordinary.

“How?” Fred asks as he watches them run their wands around the edges of a closet. “This is a different safehouse, right?”

“Yes,” Percy says, “but the magic here is an exact duplicate of the magic there. If someone’s added something, it will show up here.”

Fred blinks. He looks at George. George blinks. “How does that work?” George asks.

“Magic,” Percy deadpans.

*

“Nothing,” Lupin says four hours later when they’ve finished combing the backroom. “Everything is perfectly in place.”

“Too perfectly?” Percy asks as he clutches at his tea cup.

“No,” Bill answers. “Nothing’s been sabotaged. Nothing’s been rearranged. However they found you, it wasn’t through a tracking spell or anything related.”

“Damnit,” Percy mutters and sips his tea. His arm jerks a little, but he manages not to spill on himself.

“Did you take your potion?” Bill asks.

“Yes, but it’s been a touch stressful today, if you’ll recall,” Percy snaps.

“Easy,” Bill says casually. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“And the twins tried to stay with me,” Percy continues. “And didn’t listen when I ordered them out.”

“Of course not,” Lupin says, “they’re you’re brothers.”

“They’re high-ranking members of the Order, and they’re needed for important advancements in this war,” Percy counters. “And they should bloody well listen to me when I tell them to leave.”

“They’re still your brothers,” Lupin says calmly.

Percy gives Bill an exasperated look, and Bill shrugs. “They are,” he adds. “Hell, Percy, the only reason I’m not tackling you into a hug is because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“I think I’ll step into the sitting room,” Lupin says, trying to hold back a smile.

“Bill—” Percy tries to say, but he’s pulled into the threatened hug.

“I’ll listen if you tell me to run,” Bill tells him. “So shut up and let me hug my little brother, all right?”

Percy doesn’t argue.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Hannah Abbot shows up on a bright afternoon with three other people. “Injured!” She yells when Percy pauses at the doorframe.

“I still need it, Hannah,” Percy says while his stomach twists into a knot.

“I saw a pretty red bird on a branch.”

“And it sang a terrible song.” Percy presses his hand on the doorjamb and tucks himself against a man with blood pouring from a gash on his head. “It’s procedure,” he says when he realizes Hannah is glaring.

“I don’t have to like it,” she practically growls.

They get the injured laid out on the beds, and Hannah retrieves the supply of healing potions while Percy starts mopping up the blood. He realizes that the man he helped into the room is Marcus Flint. It’s another few seconds before he recognizes Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Hannah runs back in with the potions, and Percy falls into the routine of bandaging and dosing that he’s learned in the past ten months. Afterwards, as the injured sleep, he makes Hannah a hot toddie and keeps his hands steady long enough to make a cup of tea.

“Where were they?” He asks.

“I don’t know. They showed up at headquarters looking like that, and I brought them here.”

Percy pauses in adding honey to his tea. “They showed up at headquarters?” He asks.

“That’s what I said,” Hannah says waspishly.

“Why weren’t they cared for there? Headquarters supplies most of my potions. They should have more than enough supplies and people to take care of the injuries in there.” Percy watches the way Hannah takes a long drink of her hot toddie. “How bad is it?” he asks.

“It’s a blitz,” Hannah says with a sigh.

Percy walks over to the microwave, opens the door, and jams his finger against the ‘popcorn’ button twice. It takes a moment for the fuzziness to clear into Charlie’s face.

“Hey, Perce!” Charlie greets, a tired smile breaking over his face. “Everything—”

“Was anyone going to inform me that we’re in the midst of a blitz?” Percy interrupts. “Or that there was a need for potions?”

“We—”

“Send me a list of what you need. I can brew it here, and I’ll send it back with one of yours.” Percy raises his eyebrows at Hannah, and she nods quickly.

“Okay,” Charlie says after a moment. He looks down and there’s some rustling, and then Charlie looks at Percy again. “We didn’t mean to leave you out of the loop,” he says sincerely. “I’ll be sending revised updates to everyone.”

“Where’s Minerva?” Percy asks.

“Not here,” Charlie says shortly. “You’ll have the list in a few minutes, and I’ll send someone to help with ingredients.”

“Thank you.” Percy makes himself take a deep breath. “Mum and Dad?”

“Still okay,” Charlie says with a sigh. He looks very tired as his image ripples. “Anything else?”

“How’s everyone else?”

“Also okay.”

“Thanks for the list,” Percy says quietly.

“Thanks for the reminder,” Charlie replies, and his smile is small but genuine. “Should have someone there in three minutes. Be careful.”

“You too.”

Neville and Penelope apparate in exactly three minutes later. “Forty-seven flavors, and I got earwax,” Neville says.

“At least it wasn’t dirt,” Percy replies. He and Hannah help them unshrink cauldrons and ingredients. Penelope transfigures four of the bedside tables into fireplaces, and Neville shows Percy the list of what’s needed.

“Ingredients we’ve got,” Neville says as he hangs a cauldron over a fire. “It’s the time to brew that we’re missing.”

“We should have contacted you days ago,” Penelope adds, “but there’s not been any time.”

Percy wants to ask questions, but he knows the answers are too dangerous. “Let’s not waste anymore, then. Neville, am I correct in assuming you’re still not fond of brewing?”

“Entirely,” Neville says as he pulls a face.

Percy grabs four more of the bedside tables and slides them together. He taps them with his wand, and the edges fuse to make one large table. “You can measure ingredients here, and I’ll need you to keep an eye on the wounded while we work.”

“I can do that.” Neville starts lining up ingredients on the table and pulls a miniaturized set of scales from his pocket.

Percy looks at Hannah. “I don’t recall your aptitude for potions.”

“I can follow instructions, but I move fairly slowly,” Hannah says. “I’ll take the less intricate brews, and you and Penelope can concentrate on the more involved ones.”

Percy looks at Penelope, and she nods at him. “That should work.”

They brew in mostly silence. Hannah murmurs as she reads and re-reads her instructions. Neville counts under his breath as he chops herbs and counts out newt eyes and dragon scales. Penelope sings under her breath, something slow and calming that Percy doesn’t recognize.

Two days later, Percy sees them all off with an exhausted nod. “Good luck,” he says as they apparate.

*

Oliver shows up four days later, a bruise darkening the left side of his jaw. “Saw a dog walk on his back legs.”

“I hear there are revues for that.” Percy stops Oliver in the threshold of the sitting room and tilts his head to see the bruise better. “Someone punched you?”

Oliver turns his head away. “Shower, food, then conversation, right?”

Percy steps aside. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Can I report to you?”

“Of course,” Percy says quietly. He watches Oliver walk to the bathroom, notices the way his head hangs like he’s just lost a Quidditch match. He walks into the kitchen and makes a strong whiskey and soda.

Oliver comes out of the shower, towel around his waist, another towel slung around his shoulders. “Thanks,” he says when Percy hands him his drink. “I hear you got raided,” he adds after he takes a sip. “Place looks nice.”

“Hermione’s doing,” Percy explains. “Every safehouse I run is identical to all its backups.”

“Like a back-up file on a computer,” Oliver says. He raises his eyebrows when Percy looks at him in surprise. “Muggle Studies,” he says, “and a great deal of training.”

“Sorry,” Percy apologizes. “It was just a very surprising sentence to hear coming from you.”

“It’s all right.” Oliver takes another sip of his drink and gives a sigh. “I want to report now,” he says decisively. “There’s information that needs to get delivered immediately.”

“You should eat a little something,” Percy disagrees. “I can make you a sandwich or some toast. I’ve seen what reporting on an empty stomach does to someone’s memory of events.”

“Toast and jam,” Oliver agrees. He drains his drink. “I’ll make my own tea.”

Percy puts bread in the toaster and gets strawberry jam from the fridge. He watches Oliver pour hot water into a cup and reach into the cupboard for the tea. “You should get dressed,” he says when Oliver’s started his tea steeping. “There’s trousers and a T-shirt on the second bed.”

Oliver glances down at himself. “I suppose I should.”

Percy puts the toast on a plate and carries Oliver tea cup to the table. He walks back into the kitchen to pour his own water for tea and looks over when Oliver walks out of the back room.

“Last time I was here…” Oliver starts. He stares at the tea kettle on the back burner of the stove, but his gaze flickers to Percy briefly. “Could we repeat it?”

“I need your report first,” Percy says, looking at Oliver’s left ear. “But afterwards, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay.”

Oliver shuffles into the middle room, and it takes Percy a full five seconds to realize he’s still holding a cup of hot water. He gets tea from the cupboard, grabs his quill from the top of the microwave, and pulls a pad of paper from the top of the bookshelf. He sets everything up as Oliver nibbles his toast, and only looks up when the quill is aligned with the left margin.

“Go ahead,” Percy says quietly, and the quill snaps into position.

“Voldemort isn’t there,” Oliver begins. “The Carrows are in charge, and they’ve convinced the people who’ve shown up that they have to be tested because they’ve told them magic can be painful.” Oliver pokes at the jam on his toast and licks it off his finger. “We’ve got someone in with the Carrows. That someone made sure I wasn’t one of the ones put under _Imperius_ for one of their tests.”

Percy almost asks if it was Blaise or Pansy or Marcus. “What are the tests?” He asks instead.

“They’re throwing _Crucio_ to start. Anyone who passes out from the pain is taken outside, obliviated, and left somewhere else, from what our inside person has told me. Anyone who doesn’t pass out from the pain is then thrown under _Imperius_ to test their willpower. They split everyone into pairs; one person got put under, and the other got punched in the jaw.” Oliver touches his fingers to his jaw and winces a little. “She could throw a punch,” he says quietly.

“Disregard,” Percy says to the quill, and it backs up, sucking up the ink from Oliver’s last sentence. “Have you been put under anything yet?” Percy asks.

“Our inside person managed to get me in the group.” Oliver pauses. “I don’t want to use names,” he says after a moment.

“Pause,” Percy says, and the quill falls over. “It’s okay not to tell me,” Percy says to Oliver. “Whoever reads your report at headquarters will know who’s in with the Carrows. Don’t feel obligated to name specifics.”

“Okay.” Oliver nods. “Let’s go.”

“Resume,” Percy says, and the quill jumps up again. He nods to Oliver.

“I was in the person’s test group,” Oliver continues. “And there was no way to pretend to put me under _Crucio_, so the person had to hex me.”

“Were you injured?” Percy asks.

“Hurt like hell, but I didn’t pass out,” Oliver replies. “Other than that, they haven’t tried anything on me.”

“What about the others? Outside of _Imperius_, has there been anything?”

“A few of them have meetings with the Carrows,” Oliver says. “I’ve not been invited, and I can’t figure a way to listen in. I’ve got Extendable Ears, but if I get caught, that’ll end any information whatsoever.”

“And they’ll kill you,” Percy says flatly. “Disregard,” he says to the quill.

“That’s the specifics,” Oliver says and rubs at his eyes.

“Now give me the rest,” Percy orders.

Oliver sighs and nods and backs up his timeline to list off names, dates, and locations. When he finishes, he puts his head in his hands. “Anything else?”

Percy skims the report, folds the sheaf of papers in half, and signs and dates the outside. He walks into the kitchen, opens the freezer, and places the papers in the ice maker. He closes the freezer, walks back into the middle room, and touches Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re finished,” he says quietly.

Oliver stands up and crowds Percy against the wall, one hand clenching in the material of Percy’s T-shirt. “Now?” he asks.

“Now,” Percy agrees, and he gasps when Oliver kisses him.

*

Oliver falls asleep against his shoulder, the exhaustion from his voice showing up as his face loosens in sleep. There’s a furrow above his eyebrow that doesn’t quite even out, and Percy stares at it as he presses his fingers against a bruise on his hip that matches the shape of Oliver’s thumb. He has stubble burn along his rib cage, and fingernail scratches down arm. It’s a long time before he falls asleep.

*

Percy jerks awake at the sound of a thump. Oliver’s already sitting up, wand clenched in his hand. The thump repeats, and Percy places his hand over Oliver’s wrist. “It’s the freezer,” he says reassuringly.

Oliver’s eyebrows go up. “The freezer?”

“Owls are noticeable,” Percy tells him and gets out of bed.

“The microwave’s a Floo; this safehouse is a back-up copy of the other safehouse; the freezer is an…of course the freezer delivers mail,” Oliver mutters as he follows Percy into the kitchen.

Percy opens the freezer and reaches into the ice maker. He pulls out two pieces of rolled parchment. One is addressed to Oliver, and he hands it to him so he can open the other. His parchment outlines all the recent activities of the Order—some with detail, some with only vague information—and when he looks up to see what Oliver’s gotten, Oliver’s gone white.

“I have to go,” Oliver says softly. He sets fire to his orders before he looks at Percy. “There’s been an escalation.” He turns on his heel and walks into the bathroom.

Percy listens to him pull on his clothes and looks at his information again. He has a new charge coming in the morning. He should strip his bed, he thinks. Figure out what to make for dinner tomorrow. There’s mending to do.

Oliver walks out of the bathroom and gives Percy a wan smile. “How do I look?”

“Like a cunt,” Percy says and manages a smile when Oliver chuckles tiredly. “Do you need anything?”

“Sleep,” Oliver replies. He rubs his eyes and straightens his T-shirt.

Percy reaches into the cupboard under the microwave and hands Oliver a small bottle. “Pepper-Up should help.”

“Thanks.” Oliver drinks it down in a gulp and breathes out through his nose. “There it is,” he says in a wheeze.

Percy follows Oliver to the front room, stopping at the threshold between the sitting room and front room. “Be careful,” he murmurs as Oliver looks at him.

“I’ll see you around,” Oliver answers, and then he’s gone.

“Good luck,” Percy mutters.

*

Justin shows up the next morning, wand out. “I heard you were raided,” he says after Percy drops the front room shield spells.

“It’s going around,” Percy replies, and waves Justin into the sitting room. “But at least your wand is out.”

*

Tonks pops in during the wee hours of the morning, waking Percy from a light doze on the couch. “I saw rubies in her eyes and goblin gold in her hair.”

“Fool’s gold, most likely,”

“Just bringing in your latest wards and shields,” Tonks says when Percy drops the doorjamb shield. She trips over—as far as Percy can tell—absolutely nothing and catches herself on the arm of the couch. “And I’ve got your latest from Minerva,” she pulls four Chocolate Frog cards out of her pocket.

“I’ll stay out of your way while I review these,” Percy tells her. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“Sure!” Tonks says with a smile.

Percy wonders if there’s anything in his cupboards that can be served without knives.

*

Luna stays one night and spends the majority of the time telling Percy about the twenty-foot alligators that grow on the thumbnails of lawn gnomes in Northern Wales. But you can only see them if you view them from a telescope in Hawaii.

“Interesting,” Percy mutters as he mends socks.

*

Ginny pops in for a minute and forty-five seconds. “I was supposed to stay, but I need Skel-o-Grow instead,” she says after the password.

“How many vials?” Percy asks over his shoulder as he walks to the kitchen.

“Four.”

Percy grabs them and shrinks them so Ginny can hold them in one hand. “Any word?”

“Mum and Dad are fine. Charlie’s up in Romania again, and everyone else is,” Ginny shrugs, “around. Mum wants to know how your arm’s doing.”

“The same as always,” Percy tells her. He watches her tuck the potions into the pocket of her baggy jeans and tracks a lock of her hair as it comes free from her low-tied ponytail. There’s dried blood on her arm, but no cut. “Tell them I’m okay.”

She smiles. “I will. Be careful, Percy.”

“You too.”

*

Oliver has bags under his eyes, and there’s soot under his fingernails. “They built a bomb,” he says as he collapses onto the couch. “Nearly set it off in the tube. The Order managed to catch them, but just barely.”

Percy watches Oliver sink into himself and carefully sits next to him on the couch. “Are you injured?”

“No.” Oliver props his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. “I’m just…I’m tired of being a spy,” he says wearily. “Or I’m just tired. I don’t know which.”

“I can make—”

“Can you play checkers?” Oliver interrupts. “Or Go Fish?”

“I know checkers,” Percy says slowly. “You want to play checkers?”

“Ian taught me, back in second year,” Oliver explains. “I just…it’s nothing like anything else I’ve had to do lately.”

“Checkers,” Percy mutters and stands. He walks over to the closet and checks the top shelf. “I have checkers,” he says, slightly surprised. “I’ve no idea from where.”

Oliver picks up the books from the coffee table and stacks them against a wall. “Can you set up while I shower? I feel…disgusting.”

“I can make cocoa, if you want,” Percy offers.

“Yeah,” Oliver says quietly. “That would be…” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “Please.”

Percy makes the cocoa with milk and marshmallows. He looks at the two mugs sitting on the counter and wonders, briefly, what the twins would do in this situation. He pops a bag of popcorn and digs into the back of the freezer for the quart of ice cream he bought weeks ago.

“That shower—” Oliver cuts off as he walks into the kitchen, dressed in pajama pants. He looks at the cocoa and the popcorn set up on the counter, and then at the ice cream that Percy is still holding in his hand. “I look that awful, huh?”

“Yeah,” Percy says with a shrug and digs in the utensil drawer for an ice cream scoop. “I think I have chocolate syrup in the door of the refrigerator.”

Oliver opens the fridge and finds the bottle. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says as he sets the syrup on the counter. “I’m not all that bad.”

“You’re bad,” Percy tells him. “It’s okay.”

“It just…” Oliver shakes his head. “I thought this would be the one. I’ve been working every assignment they can give me, and I thought this would be the one to make the difference.” He stares at the label on the chocolate sauce. “And tomorrow is just going to be another assignment.”

“Maybe not,” Percy says. He wants to say more, but he can’t get it out.

“You were always rubbish at false hope.”

Percy concentrates on scooping the ice cream into bowls. “How much syrup do you want?” He asks, picking up the bottle.

“Drown it,” Oliver instructs and walks into the back room. He comes back out with a half-dozen blankets and four pillows piled in his arms. “I’m playing red,” he says as he walks towards the sitting room.

Percy balances the bowls of ice cream on one arm and picks up the popcorn with his other hand. “Let me grab the cocoa,” he says as he sets down the bowls on the coffee table.

“I can get it,” Oliver says. “You get comfortable.”

“I’m supposed—” Percy starts, but Oliver is already walking to the kitchen. “All right,” he grouses under his breath. He settles himself across from the couch, rearranging the pile of blankets and pillows so his legs are covered but not tangled. He puts his wand on the table, pointing it towards the front room.

“Here you go,” Oliver says as he holds out a mug to Percy. He drops to the floor and leans against the couch, sighing as he takes his first drink of cocoa. “Best out of five?” he offers.

Percy nods and wins the first two. Oliver takes the third, and Percy just barely wins the fourth. “Loser does dishes,” Percy says as he stacks the empty ice cream bowls. He looks at Oliver, planning to hand over the bowls and offer to keep him company, but Oliver is rolling a checker between his fingers and staring at a spot on the table. “Oliver?” Percy asks quietly.

“Pansy Parkinson died today,” Oliver says just as quietly. “She was our contact, and when it came down to it, she shoved me out of the way and put a shielding charm around herself and the bomb.”

Percy watches Oliver flip the checker over his knuckle. He digs for something to say. “She was here,” he says finally. “She was injured. She had three broken fingers and a skull fracture. We had to keep her unconscious for her head to heal.”

Oliver looks at Percy. “When was that?”

“Two weeks ago, I think. Maybe two-and-a-half.”

“There was a huge group of us at a meeting around then,” Oliver says, closing his eyes to think. “I don’t remember her being there.” He opens his eyes and looks at Percy. “I wonder what she was doing.”

“I don’t know,” Percy tells him.

“Do you take everyone’s reports?” Oliver asks.

“No. Most everyone prefers to report straight to someone at headquarters. I only take them if asked.”

“Do you know where most people have been before they come here?”

“No,” Percy says and looks at the checkerboard.

“That’s got to be maddening,” Oliver replies, shaking his head. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Mum used to accuse me of tunnel vision,” Percy tells him. “It’s useful here. I have a clear objective and know how to get there. Anything outside of that isn’t necessary information.”

“Really?”

Percy thinks about the twins. “Most of the time, yes.”

Oliver stretches out his legs under the table and presses his feet against Percy’s knees. “And the rest of the time?”

“I can’t think about that. There’s too much at stake.” Percy stands up and starts to fold the blankets. “You owe me dishes,” he says after a pause.

Oliver stands and gathers the bowls, spoons, and mugs. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Percy listens to him walk into the kitchen. He listens to him start the water, and he jumps when he hears all the dishes clatter into the sink. Before he can shout if Oliver needs help, Oliver is back in the living room.

“We should date,” he declares, hands on his hips.

Percy blinks and nearly drops the blanket he’s folding. “What?” He finally manages to get out.

“I think…I’m relaxed when I’m here,” Oliver explains. “I like being around you. I like being here because of you. We should date.” Oliver takes a deep breath. “If you want, I mean.”

Percy blinks again. “Where is this—”

“I could have died today,” Oliver interrupts. “Or I could be dead tomorrow. The timing is—”

“I can’t,” Percy cuts him off.

Oliver stares at him, his shoulders slumping as his hands drop from his hips. “Why not?”

“I…” Percy looks at the blanket in his hands. He looks at Oliver again. Oliver meets his eyes. “I have a responsibility to every person who comes here,” Percy says quietly. “Allowing myself to get involved with someone…I can’t.”

“You could be dead tomorrow,” Oliver argues.

“Maybe,” Percy agrees, “but my responsibilities would still be to everyone who comes here.”

There’s a pause. Oliver sighs. “There’s more to life than responsibility,” he mutters.

“Not right now,” Percy replies. “At least, not for me.”

“All right,” Oliver says with a shake of his head. He gives Percy a slightly strained smile. “I had to try, at least.”

“I appreciate it,” Percy tells him. “Really. It’s…nice.”

Oliver laughs at that. “Nice. Yeah. Okay.” He steps forward and takes the blanket from Percy’s hands and finishes folding it. “It’s going to end sometime,” he tells Percy.

“But not yet,” Percy replies.

*

Oliver crawls into bed with Percy that night, arm around Percy’s waist before Percy can maneuver his way around it. “You’re warm,” Oliver tells him. “That’s it.”

“It’s not,” Percy argues, but Oliver is already asleep against his shoulder. “Cheater,” Percy mutters before he falls asleep.

*

The next morning, as Percy watches Oliver set himself to apparate, he digs for something to say. “I…” he breathes in deep when Oliver gives him a hopeful look. Dead tomorrow, he thinks. “Good luck,” he says quietly.

“Thank you,” Oliver replies, a sudden smile breaking across his face. “Bye, Perce.

Five minutes later, Susan Bones apparates in, bleeding from a gash in her side. “The geese at the pond ignored my bread,” she hisses out between clenched teeth.

“I hear they enjoy bits of chocolate.” Percy drops the spells and catches Susan as she starts to pitch forward. “Easy,” he murmurs into her hair as she leans her head on his shoulder. “You’re safe here.”

*

Kingsley Shacklebolt shows up, plucks up two bottles of Percy’s Veritaserum stores, and nearly stops to have dinner when he realizes Percy is making pork chops in mushrooms and onions.

“I have a pressing engagement,” Kingsley says in a tone that makes it sound like he’s late for a work meeting. “Your mother wants to know how your arm is holding up.”

“It’s fine,” Percy tells him.

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about your work here,” Kingsley says as he steps into the front room again. “You should be very proud.”

“Thank you,” Percy says. “Good luck,” he adds before Kingsley apparates.

“And to you,” Kingsley replies, and then he’s gone.

*

Percy’s making tea very early one morning when he hears the pop of apparation. There’s a follow-up crack that tells him the shields have been dismantled. He throws open the microwave, pushes the “quick defrost” button three times, and has his wand ready when three Death Eaters storm into the room.

“_Petrificus Totalus_!” Percy yells, and sends one of the Death Eaters flying.

The second and third tackle him to the ground, and Percy feels three quick squeezes to his wrist. “Don’t fight.”

Percy doesn’t recognize the voice, but the signal is unmistakable. He can’t see the face of the Death Eater who pulls him to his feet. “There’s no one here,” he tells the third Death Eater. “It’s just me.”

“You’re the one we want,” the third Death Eater says in a gravelly voice as he snaps Percy’s wand.

Percy squeezes his eyes shut as they apparate.

*

They levitate and body-bind him from the neck down before they start the interrogation. Percy recognizes Rabastan LeStrange when he walks into the small, circular room.

“Mr. Weasley,” Rabastan says flatly, “you are a blood traitor.”

Percy stares at him and says nothing. He needs information, any information, and making Rabastan angry isn’t the way to get it.

“Tell me about your safehouse,” Rabastan orders.

“No,” Percy replies quietly.

Rabastan raises his eyebrows. “No?” he asks icily.

“No,” Percy repeats.

Rabastan flicks his wand, and Percy falls to the ground, landing hard on his right arm. “Very well, then.”

Percy wipes blood from his lip and stares at the floor as Rabastan leaves. It’s going to get bad, he knows, and he pushes himself up with his left arm. He leans against the wall, wraps his right arm around his body, and starts a mental list all the books he’s read that year.

*

“And today?” Rabastan asks the next day.

“No,” Percy rasps out, throat dry from lack of water. His stomach growls audibly, and Percy doesn’t have the energy to glare when Rabastan laughs.

“Foolish traitor,” Rabastan mutters as he leaves.

*

Sometime in the night—at least Percy thinks it’s night—someone slides open the viewing window of Percy’s cell and drops in a few slices of bread. In the meager light coming through the cracks in the walls, Percy makes out an ‘O’ stamped into one of the slices. The Order has someone here.

He eats slowly, wanting the bread to last, and falls into a fitful sleep, waking every time his arm spasms roughly.

*

“We have the potion needed to still your arm,” Rabastan offers. “Or we could bind it.”

“No,” Percy whispers, staring Rabastan straight in the eyes.

“_Crucio_,” Rabastan drawls, and Percy’s arm slowly contracts. “We also have potions to take away the pain.”

Percy hisses in a breath between his teeth. He counts to twenty. “No,” he grits out.

“_Crucio_,” Rabastan repeats and leaves.

It takes Percy to the count of one thousand fourteen before he gets his fingers uncurled. It’s a count to four hundred to straighten his arm.

*

The door opens, and someone throws water on Percy. The temperature in the room drops to near freezing. Percy stands up and walks the circumference of the room again and again, listing all the recipes he’s learned since he started running the safehouse.

He manages to stay awake until what he thinks is dawn, when the temperature in the room shoots back up to something comfortable.

*

“We have your mother,” Rabastan says conversationally on a day that Percy thinks is Tuesday. “She’s next door. I could torture her for what I need.”

“She doesn’t know about the safehouse,” Percy tells him. “She’s never seen it.”

“Are you certain?” Rabastan moves towards the door, hand reaching for the knob.

“You don’t have my mother,” Percy says calmly. “If you really had her somewhere, you would have brought her in with you. Made me watch as you hurt her before you offered me the chance to tell you anything.”

“Hmmm,” Rabastan hums, and taps his finger on his chin. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Rabastan hits the door with the side of his fist. It opens, and Blaise Zabini walks in, pulling along a woman with red hair who looks like Molly Weasley. “You were saying?” Rabastan asks with a smirk.

Percy looks at the woman. She stares at him, looking fearful and small. “I’d like another green sweater for Christmas,” he says to her.

The woman who looks like Molly looks surprised. “Your sweater was yellow last year,” she says, her voice shaking.

“It was blue,” Percy replies. He looks at Blaise, who glares at him. “That’s not my mother.”

“Leave,” Rabastan says to the impersonator, and she stands up, muttering darkly as she leaves. He looks at Blaise. “Did you bring it?”

Blaise pulls a vial from his pocket. It’s burgundy with a slightly yellowed cork. “Now?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Percy tries to fight as Blaise pulls at his chin and tips back his head. The body-bind keeps him still enough for Blaise to pour the potion down his throat. It’s Veritaserum, and there’s a moment where Blaise looks him right in the eyes. It’s the Veritaserum from Percy’s shelf, he knows then. It’s one of the bottles Kingsley tucked into his pocket.

“Tell me about the safehouse,” Rabastan orders in a tone that already crows accomplishment.

Percy counts to twenty. He waits for the Veritaserum to take over and make him talk, but the feeling of detachment isn’t there. He slides a glance at Blaise. Blaise’s left hand is at his side, the fingers forming an ‘O’. The Veritaserum won’t start working, Percy realizes, because it’s not Veritaserum. It’s been switched.

“The safehouse,” Rabastan repeats. He looks at Blaise. “Are you certain that potion was strong enough?”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaise says. “He has training to avoid answering questions. It may just take a little bit longer.”

Percy drops his head forward, closes his eyes halfway, and makes himself speak slowly. “There are four that are mine.”

“Where are they located?”

Percy gives four dummy addresses. They’re mock-ups that Percy helped Bill and Lupin put together just in case he was captured.

“Have you seen Harry Potter?” Rabastan asks.

“No,” Percy says, relieved that he doesn’t have to make sure he sounds like he’s telling the truth.

Rabastan walks over and presses his wand to Percy’s right arm. “Have you seen Harry Potter?” he asks again.

“No,” Percy repeats. He grits his teeth when Rabastan sends a flare of pain through his arm.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Another flare, and Percy concentrates on the white spots that dance in front of his eyes.

Rabastan flicks his wand and watches Percy crumple to the floor. “Feed him,” he orders Blaise. He leaves the room.

Blaise reaches into his robe and pulls out a sandwich. He drops it on the floor in front of Percy. “Eat it,” he snaps.

Percy picks up the sandwich with his left hand and eats quickly, afraid Blaise will take it away if he takes his time. Blaise sets down a tin cup next to Percy’s right arm and sneers when he watches Percy’s hand shake.

“Good work,” Blaise says under his breath, just loud enough for Percy to hear.

Percy doesn’t look up, too busy drinking down his water. When he finishes the cup, he stares into it. It refills automatically, and he risks a glance at Blaise.

“It’s the best I can do,” Blaise mutters, still sneering. “Tap it once with your finger to stop it. Tap it again to get more.”

“Thank you,” Percy whispers as quietly as he can.

“Enjoy your solitude,” Blaise says at a normal volume. There’s mockery in his tone. “We’re off to visit your friends.”

Percy drinks two more cups of the water and whispers his way through all the stars he can name from Astronomy.

*

No one comes to interrogate him for two days. Percy keeps his right arm curled tight around his body to try and control the shaking and hopes that the false safehouses are convincing enough. He recites the names of the Hogwarts Headmasters as he watches the light move across the cracks in the walls.

*

He’s walking a slow circle around the room and rubbing his right arm to try and reduce the tremors when he hears a commotion. Percy stands away from the door and picks up the cup, drinking down the water in it and tapping his finger to keep it from refilling.

“Anyone there?” A voice shouts, and it takes Percy a moment to realize it’s Lee Jordan.

“Yes!” He shouts.

“Stand back!”

Percy presses himself hard against the wall and covers his face with his left arm. The door to his cell flies inward and bounces on the opposite wall. When the dust settles, Percy finds Lee beaming at him.

“Percy Weasley! Ready to go?”

“Desperately,” Percy replies. “They’ve broken my wand,” he says as the commotion in the hallway gets louder.

“No problem,” Lee tells him as he grabs Percy’s right arm. “We’re taking the express.”


	3. Chapter 3

Percy’s pulled into a hug before he can even register they’ve arrived. “Hullo, Mum,” he says against her shoulder.

“Oh, honey,” Molly says and takes a step back as Percy’s arm twitches. “Are you injured?” She presses her hands along his sides and studies his face. “Did they hit you?”

“Most likely,” Draco Malfoy says from the side. “They do enjoy it.” He steps forward and puts a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “He needs looking over, Molly. Release your talons so I can take care of it.”

Percy wants to tell Draco not to talk to his mother that way, but he’s suddenly incredibly tired. “Something’s wr—”

*

He comes to in a small bedroom with blue walls and yellow curtains. Draco Malfoy is leaning over him and doing something to his right arm. “Did I faint?” Percy asks after a moment.

Draco looks up. “Oh, you’re not dead.” He sounds slightly disappointed at the fact. “The Death Eaters have set up their cells to act as an energy drain. You don’t feel it unless you’re rescued. It keeps our people from getting back into the fighting.”

“Oh,” Percy replies and feels his eyes slipping shut.

*

Percy wakes up and sees his mother at his bedside. “I’m okay,” he says at her worried look.

“Oh, Percy,” she says quietly and squeezes his hand. “We were so worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Percy tells her.

Molly’s face flushes. “Don’t you dare,” she says fiercely. “You’re a brave man. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

“Okay.” Percy yawns. “I think I’m falling asleep again,” he says.

“That’s fine, sweetheart.” Molly brushes her fingers through his hair. “You need your rest.”

*

When he wakes again it’s early morning. He blinks a few times to see if he’s going to fall back asleep and finds himself feeling rested.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Draco says as he looks up from scrawling something on a piece of parchment. He walks over and presses his wand to Percy’s temple. “Temperature’s normal. The energy drain has mostly faded. You’re surprisingly hydrated from having been in their care for nearly a week.”

“We had someone there,” Percy says. “Made my cup refillable.”

Draco smiles, just barely. “Blaise.” He rolls his eyes at Percy’s shocked look. “One, I am on your entirely over-noble side on all this. Two, he used to use that trick to pick up Muggle girls over holidays.”

“Oh,” Percy replies. He tries to sit up and nearly falls over when his right arm doesn’t move. “My arm—”

“I need time to correct your non-tremor potion,” Draco interrupts. “So you’re splinted.”

“Mum made that potion.”

“Your mother is a passable cook and rubbish at potions,” Draco replies.

Percy almost argues, but he remembers the way Draco had said his mother’s name with something close to respect when he’d first apparated back. “Where am I?” He asks instead.

“Granger’s house. Her parents offered their spare rooms for you invalids to get back on your feet.” Draco bends over his parchment and makes a note of something. “One of your brothers is on his way up to take your report. You’ll get fed in about an hour. Don’t get out of bed.”

Before Percy can ask which brother, Draco’s out the door.

Charlie walks in thirty seconds later, transfigures the bench at the end of the bed into a chair, and sits to Percy’s left. “Hey, Perce,” he says with a smile.

“Hullo,” Percy responds. “Just tell me when.”

Charlie opens a pad of paper and uncaps a biro. “Go ahead.”

Percy tells him everything from waking up in his bed to Lee Jordan showing up at his cell. The biro, it turns out, is charmed like a Quick-Quotes Quill, and it makes Percy smile a little when Charlie makes it pause in the same way he does.

“Good piece of work there,” Charlie tells him, nodding at the biro. “Everyone’s stolen it. Although I’ve heard a few stories about bad calibration.”

“You have to be precise,” Percy says. “I have some specifications written up, but they were in the safehouse.”

“We got them,” Charlie assures him. “They didn’t bother to rifle through your papers, or if they did, they didn’t move them much.”

Percy blinks. “If they didn’t want my papers, why were they there?”

Charlie’s eyebrows nearly touch when he furrows his brow. “For you,” he says slowly.

“Why?”

Charlie leans forward, hands coming to rest on the edge of the bed. “We only send you the top people, Percy. They came for you because of that.”

“Oh.” Percy swallows hard. “I didn’t realize.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Charlie says with a fond smile. “You never have.”

“Huh?” Percy asks.

“Nothing,” Charlie replies and stands. He pats Percy’s knee through the cover. “Get some rest. You look tired.”

Percy wants to argue, but his eyes are already drooping.

*

His father is sitting in the transfigured chair when Percy wakes up. He’s reading a book about Muggle history, and he smiles when he sees that Percy is awake. “There you are! Draco said you’d be in and out for at least the rest of the day, but you’ve been mostly out.”

Percy yawns and tries to stretch. The splint on his arm catches on the sheets.

“Careful,” Arthur says lightly, “I promised your mother you’d be in the same number of pieces when she came back.” He closes his book and reaches under his chair for a box. “I know how you hate being at loose ends.” He hands Percy a book.

“Julia Child?” Percy asks as he opens the book.

“Mrs. Granger informs me that she’s a very famous Muggle chef,” Arthur explains. “Your mother is a wonderful cook, but I thought you might be bored by now.”

Percy flips through the books, stopping to examine particularly colorful pictures. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Also,” Arthur says and hands over a different book, “to keep you up to date.”

It’s the latest edition of _Advanced Potions Making_. Percy smiles at his father. “This is brilliant.”

“I thought you might enjoy it.”

Percy reads for nearly two hours, his father reading by his side, and he doesn’t notice when he falls asleep.

*

Percy gets up the next day, ignoring Draco’s disapproving glare, and makes his way slowly to the kitchen. His mother is stirring something on the stove and shakes her head at him when he leans against the counter. “You should be sleeping,” she scolds.

“Did they get anyone?” Percy asks.

“Percy, darling, you should be sitting, at least.”

“Did they get anyone from my house?” He asks, pulling at his right arm. “Was there any information—”

Molly stops stirring, tucks a hand at Percy’s right elbow, and deliberately leads him to a chair at the small table tucked in a corner of the room. “No one, dear,” she says quietly as she makes him sit. “Not a single person. You did an absolutely brilliant job at all times.” She kisses the top of his head and holds his face between her hands. “And not a bit of this is due to something you did or did not do. Do you understand me?”

Percy nods. “Yes.”

“Good.” Molly brushes his hair away from his face. “As long as you’re up, I’ll make you a cup of tea, but you’ll need breakfast to go with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Percy mumbles. He looks around the kitchen as his mother moves around the stove and smiles at the books lined neatly on a shelf built into the wall. He’d always assumed Hermione’s appreciation for learning had come from her parents. He cocks his head sideways to read the titles, and Bill walks into the room.

“You’ll get a crick,” he says and pauses to kiss Molly on the head. “Enough water for another cup, or do I make my own?” He asks her.

“Away from my stove,” Molly orders, “or your hair will go up.”

Bill rolls his eyes as he sits. “Yes, Mum,” he mutters. He smiles at Percy. “Your color’s up.”

“Is it?” Percy asks. He hasn’t thought to consult a mirror.

“To be fair, your color was somewhere around eggshell when you came in, so you’re doing quite well. I think you’re up to cream.”

Percy manages a smile. “Oh, good. I was afraid I’d drop to lemon chiffon.”

Bill chuckles and scratches behind his ear. “I’ll warn you if you get there.” He looks at his hands, and then at Molly. “I’m going to tell him, Mum,” he says after a pause.

Molly turns on her heel, tea kettle in her hand, and gives Bill a stern look. “I don’t think—”

“Better to know,” Bill interrupts.

Percy looks back and forth between them, wondering what’s going on. “I don’t—”

“Let me finish the tea, at least, and I’ll leave you to it,” Molly concedes.

Bill nods. “All right.”

Percy tries again. “I don’t understand.”

“Bit of bad news you need to hear,” Bill says, face completely serious. “It’s my job to tell you, given my position in things.”

“Position?”

“Lupin and I—” Bill sighs when Molly rattles the kettle on the stove. “Well, if you’d move a bit faster, I could just get on with it.”

“Don’t talk back,” Molly snaps, and a moment later she’s carrying two cups of tea over to the table. She puts them down, retrieves the milk and sugar, and gives them both a long look that Percy can’t quite read. “I’ll be in the sitting room,” she says, her eyes not quite on either one of them.

Percy watches her leave and only looks at Bill again once she’s out of sight. “What is it?” he asks.

“When you sent the alarm that you’d been found out,” Bill begins again, “Lupin and I were sent to the safehouse to try and track you. We combed the whole place from end-to-end, and we only found the charm when Lupin thought to lift the microwave.”

“Charm?” Percy asks. There’s a cold weight settling in his stomach, and he takes a drink of tea.

“The charm that let the Death Eaters in, it was hidden under the microwave. It disabled the shielding spells for three very specific Death Eaters. Very, very luckily for us, one of them was our contact.”

Percy thinks about the three quick squeezes to his arm. “Blaise.”

“Yes,” Bill confirms.

“Did he set it? He was there—”

“No,” Bill interrupts. He stares into his tea for a moment. “It was Justin,” he finally says. “He planted it the last time he visited you, after the first time they found you.”

Percy can’t breathe for a moment. “Justin?” He finally pushes out. “But…do we know why?”

“We do,” Bill says. “He was at headquarters when we found the charm, and they detained him there. They captured his parents and sent him pictures of them everyday. They threatened to _Crucio_ them to death if Justin didn’t assist them.” Bill taps his fingers on the table and clears his throat. “It was fake. They murdered his parents outright. Moody found the bodies two days before you went missing.”

“Oh,” Percy says quietly. He stares into his mug. “What will happen to him?”

“He’s out of the field, obviously. And he’s locked down at headquarters until the war’s over.” Bill shakes his head. “I don’t quite blame him, you know? But I would like the chance to rattle his teeth.”

Percy thinks about Justin for a moment, about the way he never had his wand raised. Was he trying to warn him, he wonders. And why was his wand raised the last time? “Did he send them the first time?” He asks.

“We don’t know. The charm we found behind the microwave was set on a timer. It would have expired after another twenty-four hours, and it had been set the day of Justin’s last visit.” Bill reaches out a hand and taps Percy on his left arm. “This isn’t your doing,” he says firmly. “We tried to explain to Justin that it could be Polyjuice or glamours, and we thought he listened.”

“I think he tried to tell me,” Percy says, looking at Bill’s face. “Not out loud, but I think—”

“You’ll go crazy wondering,” Bill interrupts. “Best to leave it for what it is.”

Percy takes another drink of his tea. He looks at the books on the shelf. “What happened to Blaise?” He asks after a minute. “Do they know—”

“Blaise was very sadly captured with all the other Death Eaters who showed up at the dummy addresses,” Bill says with a grin. “And Blaise, as far as they know, is trapped in a small, smelly cell same as them.”

Percy feels a smile pulling at his mouth. “And Blaise is actually…?”

“Very comfortably ensconced at another safehouse until such time as we can put him to work in the field again.”

“He did brilliantly,” Percy tells Bill. “I wasn’t absolutely certain he was on my side until he gave me that cup. And I’d patched him up previously.”

“I’ll send word that you said so,” Bill says and stands. He finishes off his tea and pats Percy on the shoulder. “I’m used to the twins nearly killing themselves,” he says in a tone that’s only half-joking. “Merlin knows they’ve made a life out of it. Try not to follow their bad example, all right?”

“I just want to get back to work,” Percy tells him, touching Bill’s hand for just a moment. “Any idea on when I can?”

“Mum’s in charge of that.” Bill chuckles at Percy’s groan. “Best of luck, little brother.” He walks out of the room, and Percy hears him tell Molly she can go back in.

“All finished with your conversation?” Molly asks as she picks up Bill’s empty cup.

“Yes, Mum,” Percy tells her. He reaches for her hand as she starts to walk away, and she curls around him instantly, his head cradled against her stomach. “Justin,” he murmurs, and makes himself breathe deep.

“Shhh,” Molly whispers. “It’s nothing you did, and it’s nothing you didn’t. Shhh.”

*

“Here,” Draco says two days later when he finds Percy on the back patio with a book. He’s holding out a small green ball. Percy tries to take the ball with his left hand, but Draco pulls it out of his reach. “With your right,” he orders.

Percy raises his eyebrows. “Why, precisely?”

“Because I’m the one in charge of fixing your arm,” Draco snipes. He holds out the ball again. Percy takes it with his right hand. “Squeeze it for three seconds at a time. 300 reps with your right hand, then 200 with your left. I don’t want your muscles getting uneven.”

Percy looks at the ball. “I don’t understand.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Short, stupid version for heroic idiot types: your right arm has lost muscle mass because you haven’t used it as much since the Death Eaters fucked it up. 300 reps on the right arm. 200 on the left.”

“What about a potion?” Percy asks as Draco starts to stalk away.

“300 reps on the right; 200 reps on the left,” Draco states without turning around.

“I still don’t—”

Draco spins on his heel, and his nostrils flare. “The arm tremors will lessen if you work on the muscles in your arm. However,” he stretches out the word into nearly four, annoyed syllables, “if you only take the half-ruined potion your mother makes and baby your arm—as you’ve been doing, idiotically—then your arm will slowly get worse until it is completely useless, much like you’re being in this moment.”

Percy’s eyebrows climb a little higher. “Is Severus aware you’ve stolen his attitude?”

“My attitude is completely my own, Weasley,” Draco snaps and turns again. “300 reps on the right—”

“200 on the left,” Percy finishes with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve got it.”

*

It’s two full weeks before Draco feels the muscles in Percy’s arm and agrees to take off the splint. He hands Percy a potion. “Once-a-day dose. Keep up with the exercises, and I may be able to cut you down from there.”

“Okay,” Percy says. He flexes his arm experimentally, and it twitches lightly. “Will I always need the potion?”

“Yes,” Draco says shortly. “But the exercises will always help.” He looks over his shoulder when the door to Percy’s room opens. “Arthur,” he greets flatly.

“Is he better?” Arthur asks, hands clenching in the hem of his sweater.

“Well enough to quit bothering me,” Draco replies. He hands Percy a rolled piece of parchment. “The potion.”

“Thank you,” Percy says as he takes the parchment. He shares an amused look with Arthur when Draco merely mutters under his breath and leaves the room.

“He doesn’t want to believe he’s got a good heart under all of that,” Arthur says as he sits next to Percy on the bed. “Your mother keeps trying to make him see it.”

“I remember those days,” Percy says and gives him a wry smile. “He says my arm is getting better.”

“Good. Excellent.” Arthur wipes his palms on his slacks and gives Percy a considering look. “Your mother thinks I can convince you to stay here. How she expects me to convince you, I don’t know, but I told her I would come in here and talk to you.”

Percy thinks for a moment. “Do you want me to stay?”

“We want all of you children to stay,” Arthur says after a pause. “If it were up to your mother and I, none of you would have a part in any of this.” Arthur looks down at the floor, “But your mother—and, honestly, myself—we worry about you the most. We nearly lost you once…” He clears his throat and pats Percy’s arm. “But if you want to get back into it, I can help you appeal to your mother.”

“Do I…I’ve been performing well, haven’t I?”

Arthur blinks at the question. “Pardon?” he asks, bewilderment sliding across his face.

“My work at the safehouse,” Percy explains, “it’s been satisfactory, yes?”

Arthur blinks again. “That you even have to ask…” He shakes his head. “Your work is exemplary, as it always has been, son.”

“I was raided,” Percy says flatly.

“Safehouses get raided,” Arthur says matter-of-factly. “We chose not to call them ‘raidhouses’ because the connotation seemed a touch too negative.” There’s the barest hint of humor in his eyes. “I suppose we could call them, ‘occasionally-you-must-run-very-fast-hou

ses’, but then people may forget to apparate.”

Percy can’t help the chuckle that comes up from his chest. “It would be dreadful. The training to explain it would be nearly impossible to plan and organize.”

“Oh, I’m certain you could do it,” Arthur says with fatherly pride. He looks at Percy for a long moment, from the top of his head down to his toes. “We were so happy when you came home again,” he says quietly, his voice catching on the last word. “And we have always been immensely proud of your conviction.”

“Oh,” Percy says, having to work to swallow. “Thank you, Dad.”

Arthur pulls him into a one-armed hug and ruffles his hair. “You’re very welcome.” He beams at Percy and stands up, straightening his jumper. “So you’d like to go back?”

“Very much.”

“Well, then, let’s go talk to your mother.”

*

“No.”

“And why not?” Percy asks once he’s certain his mother will not elaborate.

“Because you’re unwell.”

“He is not,” Draco says from where he’s slouched in an armchair. “His arm’s better off than it was before. He’s been exceedingly well fed, and he’s rested so long I suspect he’ll sprout roots soon.”

“I don’t think—”

“Molly,” Arthur interrupts. “Percy is a full member of the Order. If Draco’s medical opinion is that he is healthy—”

“I am well aware of procedure, Arthur,” Molly snaps.

“Mum,” Percy interjects, “please. I can’t stay here for the rest of the war. People need my help, and unless you have a rational, logical reasons for refusing my request, the eventual answer will have to be yes.”

Molly glares at him. “I am well aware of that, as well.” She runs her hands through her hair, pats down her apron as though looking for a spare knut to tip an owl, and finally leaves her hands to hang at her sides. “We’ll have to send you to a safehouse that already has an organizer. Yours can’t be opened again for some time.”

“Okay,” Percy says evenly. “Will I assist in running that safehouse?”

“Yes.” Molly breathes deep and puts her hands on her hips. “You’ll leave in two days; we have to send word ahead, of course.” Her tone is crisp and unassailable. She puts her hands on Percy’s shoulders before walking around him and poking Draco in the chest. “Sit up straight,” she barks. Draco remains slouched, but Molly is out of the room and doesn’t see it.

“Well,” Arthur says into the silence, “that went rather smoothly.”

“You know she’s crying in the other room, right?” Draco asks. He raises his eyebrows when Arthur and Percy both glare at him. “Just making sure.”

*

“Supplies,” Molly says flatly, handing Percy a satchel. “And a few rations, in case something goes awry.”

“It’ll be fine, Mum,” Percy says as he slings the satchel strap over his shoulder.

“Good,” Molly replies. She straightens Percy’s collar and gives him a watery smile. “Be careful, dear.”

“You too,” he replies, and then he apparates.

When the disorientation wears off, Percy blinks twice. “This can’t be—” He nearly bites off his tongue when he realizes Oliver is standing on the other side of the door that attaches the front room to the sitting room. “Hullo,” Percy says slowly.

“Percy,” Oliver replies with a grin. He raises his eyebrows. “You know this next bit, right?”

It takes Percy a moment to realize Oliver is waiting for the password. “Oh! Yes. I took the train to Paris and saw the tower there.”

“It’s made of cheese, they tell me,” Oliver finishes.

Percy watches the shielding spells drop. “This is very odd.”

Oliver smiles and gestures Percy into the sitting room. “Which part?”

“All of it,” Percy says after a moment.

“There are four basic safehouse layouts, but I’m sure you knew that.”

“I did.”

“And I always liked yours the best, so I used it,” Oliver finishes. He leads Percy into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “Milk? Juice? Water? The kettle’s on, of course—”

“How did you end up here?” Percy interrupts as his sense of balance starts to return. “I thought you were back out there.”

“I was,” Oliver says and closes the refrigerator. He leans against the counter and looks Percy up and down. “I heard about you being taken,” he says quietly, “and between that and what happened to Pansy and all those Muggles, I needed to do something else for awhile. I needed to do something where I didn’t have to dress up or run for my life.”

“So you offered to take a safehouse?”

“I’d heard there was an opening.” Oliver’s smile is slightly crooked, like he’s not sure the joke is appropriate. “You’re okay, right? I didn’t get any special instructions, so I wasn’t—”

“I’m fine,” Percy tells him. “About as healthy as can be expected.”

“Good.” Oliver steps forward and touches Percy’s right arm. “And it’s all right?”

“Yes,” Percy says, wondering why his throat is suddenly dry. They stand very still for a moment until Percy clears his throat. “I brought you some supplies,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I was scared,” Oliver tells him. “When I heard about you getting hurt, I was…” He leans in and kisses Percy on the mouth.

Percy jumps. “Oliver—”

“Sorry,” Oliver says and steps away. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and gives Percy a sheepish smile. “I’ll behave,” he promises. “Really. I just—Just the once.”

“I have to get ingredients for my anti-tremor potion,” Percy says evenly. He takes the satchel from his shoulder and hands it to Oliver. “Your supplies.”

“Thank you,” Oliver replies. He lifts a magnet on the fridge and hands a sheet of paper to Percy. “As long as you need to go out, you can do the shopping, get your bearings.”

Percy skims the list. “I assume we’re near a bus stop.”

“Half a block east.”

*

When Percy gets back from the shop he finds Oliver seasoning fish and melting down butter in a shallow pan. “I could have cooked,” Percy says as he starts to put the groceries away, feeling strangely out of place in the replica of his former kitchen.

“This is all a clever ruse,” Oliver says as he lays the fish fillets into the pan. “I inherited the mending from your previous safehouse.”

“And you’ve never learned to stitch a hem,” Percy replies and feels his stomach unknot. “Direct me to the pile, and I’ll stay out of your way.”

“It’s under the side table in the sitting room, but you don’t want to go anywhere.” Oliver grins widely. “We get to set dinner on fire.”

Percy’s can’t stop himself from raising his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Oliver points to the cookbook. “Salmon in whiskey and cream sauce. After the fish cooks, you douse it in whiskey and set it on fire.”

“You cannot be—” Percy pushes up his glasses as he skims the recipe. “So we’re setting fire to dinner,” he says with a nod.

Oliver hands him a small box of matches. “Make sure to jump back quickly.”

*

Three days later, Severus apparates in with Moody, both of them bleeding from head wounds. Percy notices Oliver’s hands shaking as he gets Moody prone on a bed.

“They need stitches,” Percy says to Oliver evenly. “The curved needles should be in my sewing kit.”

“Okay.” Oliver stands completely still for just a moment. “Needles,” he mutters, and walks out of the room.

“Don’t need stitches,” Moody growls. “Just wipe the blood from my eye—”

“I will body-bind you if I must,” Percy says quietly. He presses his wand to Severus’s temple and breathes out hard when it glows slightly green. “You have a mild concussion.”

“Of course I do,” Severus mutters. He closes his eyes for a moment. “There are two of you now?”

“I was raided,” Percy says shortly.

“Needles,” Oliver says as he walks back into the room. “And the surgical thread. I figured…you know…”

“Thank you,” Percy tells him as he takes the supplies. “I need the numbing potions from the shelf.”

“Sure.”

“Bit skittish, isn’t he?” Moody says as he shifts on the bed.

“First sight of blood,” Percy explains.

“Hmph,” Moody grunts in response.

Oliver comes back into the room and hands a vial of potion to Severus. He walks around the edge of the bed to hand Moody the other vial and starts when Moody clamps a hand on his wrist. “Yes, sir?”

“Blood’s part of war, son,” Moody states. “Get over it now, or you’re no good here.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver says with a sharp nod. “Drink your potion.”

*

“You did very well,” Percy tells Oliver afterwards while Severus and Moody rest. He washes his hands in the kitchen sink and dries his hands on a towel Oliver hands him.

“I wasn’t expecting…” Oliver shakes his head. “I forgot that people come here after things happen.”

“You get used to it,” Percy assures him. “The question is, what do you do now?”

Oliver thinks for a moment. “Check on them every few hours, make lunch, and make sure they have rations when they leave.”

“Very good,” Percy says. His stomach twists a little when Oliver beams at him.

*

Roger Davies apparates in and never leaves the front room. “Out of rations,” he says.

“How much do you need?” Percy asks.

“Enough for six for a week.”

Percy looks at Oliver, but Oliver seems stuck in place, looking at Davies. Percy wonders what he sees. “I’ll grab them. You and Oliver can chat Quidditch.”

Roger smiles a little. “Thanks.”

When Percy comes back from the kitchen, rations shrunk to fit into a pile in the palm of his hand, Oliver and Roger are actually discussing the news from the front lines.

“There’s been a run of battles. Little things everywhere, but all of them timed really suspiciously, you know?” Roger gives Percy a nod when Percy carefully dumps the rations into his hand. “Thanks, Percy. Good to see you again.”

“Be careful, Roger,” Percy tells him.

“Do my best.” Roger lifts a hand to Oliver. “See you later, Wood.”

“Yeah,” Oliver murmurs. He watches the empty space after Roger apparates. “He’s very thin,” he says quietly.

“Is he?” Percy asks.

“His face has completely changed shape.” Oliver sits next to Percy on the couch and leans against Percy’s shoulder. “I hope he’ll be okay.”

Percy looks at Oliver’s profile from his peripheral vision. “I do, too.”

*

“I made lunch, did the dishes, made you a week’s worth of arm potion, and I’m seriously considering scrubbing the loo to keep myself occupied.” Oliver throws up his hands when Percy merely raises his eyebrows. “Distract me; I beg you. I’m so bored, I’m tempted to let you teach me to mend.”

“You’ve not the patience for it,” Percy says with a smile. “You could read something.”

“That requires sitting still.”

“You could jog,” Percy suggests.

“Went yesterday, and we’re expecting someone.” Oliver shakes his head. “How do you handle the waiting?” he asks as he flops next to Percy on the couch.

Percy marks his place in his book with a slip of paper. “It’s just part of it, I suppose.”

“It doesn’t make you crazy?”

“No.”

“Makes me crazy,” Oliver huffs.

*

The twins show up looking suspiciously neat and clean. Percy watches them greet Oliver and sees scabs on their knuckles. “Were you in a fight?”

“And nearly burned to death!” George says gleefully. “We had to knick fresh kit from a clothesline.”

“Spoils of war,” Fred adds, plucking at his blue and purple jumper. “It’s a great story. You’ll love it.”

It takes them three hours to tell the story. Oliver sets up the Quick-Quotes Quill and paper, and Percy makes dinner, knocking Fred and George aside with his shoulder when they get in the way.

“You know, Mum gives us hugs,” Fred tells him, interrupting George mid-sentence.

“Disregard,” Oliver tells the quill.

“Mum doesn’t have to take your reports,” Percy tells Fred.

“And our kitchen’s much bigger,” George adds.

“Where were you after you left Surrey?” Percy asks, and the report picks up again.

The twins eat dinner and dessert, make a show of waving goodbye, and then they’re gone. Percy makes sure Oliver signs the report and puts it in the freezer.

“They know how close they came, don’t they?” Oliver asks as he closes the freezer.

“I don’t ask,” Percy admits.

*

Ernie MacMillian shows up with twelve people, all bloody or limping or unconscious. He has a deep gash on the back of his right shoulder and winces when Percy cleans up the dried blood. “Semi-ambush,” he says between gritted teeth. “They showed up earlier than we were expecting.”

“What happened?” Oliver asks as he spoons out Skel-o-Grow for Terence Higgs.

“They’re running.” Ernie flinches when Percy starts to stitch his wound. “Can’t you just heal it?”

“Potions and Muggle medicine for whatever we can,” Percy tells him. “You know that. I can give you another dose of pain reliever if you need.”

“Give it to Padma,” Ernie says. “They hit her with a pretty nasty _Crucio_.”

“Why are they running?” Oliver asks as he checks Padma Patil’s pulse as she moans and tries to curl into a ball. “Easy,” Oliver says and taps his wand to her temple to let her fall unconscious.

“Harry’s getting close.”

Percy nearly drops his needle. “What?”

“Couple of the Death Eaters mentioned it. I don’t think headquarters knows, yet. I need to report in.”

“Let me finish stitching you up, and you can use the microwave.”

Ernie nods and falls silent while Percy finishes his work. Percy gives him another pain relieving potion and waves him to the kitchen. He turns to ask Oliver if he needs help and finds him staring at the far wall.

“This isn’t where I should be,” Oliver says quietly.

Percy looks around the room. Everyone is either sleeping or drugged, and Percy can hear Ernie talking quietly but urgently in the kitchen. “Let’s go to the sitting room,” he offers.

Oliver follows him out, stopping briefly to squeeze Ernie’s shoulder. He sits next to Percy on the couch and stares at his hands. “I can’t do this. I thought I needed to be here…”

“But?” Percy prompts when Oliver is quiet for a few seconds.

“But every time we patch someone up, I wonder what I could be doing instead. I can’t…the aftermath isn’t my place.” Oliver looks at Percy, his eyes sad. “I needed time away, but I think I have to be out there again.”

Percy tucks his right arm against his body as it starts to shake. It’s stress, he tells himself, and ignores the way his left hand shakes as badly. “Are you certain?”

Oliver looks away again. “I think so.”

“It’s a bad night,” Percy says. “Get some rest.”

“There’s only one bed left,” Oliver points out, “and no room to transfigure another without altering the charm on the back room.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” Percy offers.

“Your arm’s already shaking from overuse. I can sleep out here, or we can—” He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I’ll take the couch.”

Percy wants to offer to share the bed. He wants to say yes to everything Oliver has offered. “This could all be over tomorrow,” he says instead.

“Maybe, but they’ll need people to help clean up in the aftermath.”

It’s true, Percy knows. No war just ends because its leader dies. There are loyalists who will keep fighting no matter the state of the rest of their side. “If you decide to leave, it’ll take a few days.”

“I know,” Oliver says. He stands up and runs his hands through his hair. “Maybe it’ll be quiet until then.”

“Is it because of me?” Percy asks before Oliver can walk away.

“No,” Oliver says sharply. “This is because of me,” he says in a softer tone. “I can’t stay here and watch people come in injured. I’m not made to patch people up. I need to be out there.”

Percy searches for something to say. “I’ve always been an administrator.”

A grin slides across Oliver’s face, and he puts a hand over his mouth to hide it. “Does anyone outside our dorm know you kept a file of every report you ever wrote for class?”

“Plagiarism is a serious issue,” Percy replies, deadpan.

“Because, obviously, someone wants your first-year Charms paper. Which you kept on file.” Oliver sits back on the couch and nudges Percy’s shoulder with his own. “It’s not you. It really isn’t. And once all of this is over, I’m going to show up here and make you cook me dinner.”

“I cook dinner for everyone.”

“You know what I mean.”

Percy looks down at the floor and feels himself flush. “Yes.”

Ernie walks into the sitting room, pausing for just a moment to give Oliver and Percy a considering look. “Is this a conversation about my squad?”

“No,” Percy says and stands. “Do you need something?”

“I have to go give a full report to the Council.” Ernie glances towards the back room. “My people?”

“We’ll take care of them,” Percy assures him. “Do you need food? Clothes? I can send you with some more pain reliving potion so your shoulder stays numb.”

Ernie shakes his head. “They’ve got all that there.” He pats himself down for his wand and pulls it from his back pocket. “I’ll be back if I can. Tell them to pay attention to their orders.”

“I will.” Percy drops the shielding spells so Ernie can walk into the front room. “Be careful,” he tells him.

“Thanks, Percy. Oliver.” Ernie gives them both a nod, and then he apparates.

“Makes me crazy,” Oliver says after a moment. “To watch them leave, to see everyone else who’s here. I really can’t understand how you do it.”

Percy takes a deep breath and gives Oliver a shrug. “It’s what needs to be done.”

*

The night before Oliver leaves, he makes Percy lemon chicken with a sticky-sweet sauce and kisses him as soon as he finishes eating. “Please,” he says against Percy’s mouth.

“We—”

“I really could be dead tomorrow,” Oliver interrupts.

It’s unfair to mention it. Percy wants to pull away and scold Oliver for being so conniving, but he wants the kiss, the warmth, Oliver’s thumb bruising his hip. It’s not a relationship, Percy thinks. It’s just sex. Percy wraps both hands in Oliver’s T-shirt and pulls him in tight. He sighs when Oliver presses him against the wall and wraps his foot around Oliver’s ankle. “Okay,” he breathes into Oliver’s ear. “Yes.”

*

Percy treats wounded every night for a week. Tonks shows up on day three, a small cut on her collarbone. She’s there to help, she informs him, and Percy is slightly surprised to find out that she has steady, sure hands when patching up the wounded.

“How bad is it?” he asks her very late one night. Four people had come in with missing bones; two others had nearly died from internal bleeding. “Is this the worst of it?”

“No,” Tonks tells him. She reaches for Percy’s right arm and starts to massage it, working from his wrist up to his shoulder. “You’re doing your exercises?”

“Everyday. And taking my potion. It’s just strain.” Percy watches the fine tremors work up his arm. “Thank you.”

“We all do what we can,” Tonks replies and keeps working.

*

Draco shows up, gives Percy’s arm a long look, and sets up a cauldron in the kitchen. “I’m making your potion stronger.”

“Why?”

“Because your arm shakes,” Draco says snidely. “And it’s not supposed to do that.”

“You told me to always expect it to do that.”

“No. I said to expect to use a potion for the rest of your life to stop it. Your arm shouldn’t shake after doing required work.”

“I was up for 37 hours dealing with injured,” Percy says flatly.

“Required work,” Draco repeats.

*

Blaise Zabini dies from his injuries in the very early hours of a Thursday. Percy uses a healing spell to close the wounds on his forehead that spell out “traitor”.

*

Hannah Abbot shows up with six, apparates out after she’s given the password, and immediately comes back with seven more. “I’m fine,” she tells Percy when he tries to check on her. “Tell me what to do.”

They save everyone, and as soon as people are stable, Hannah apparates them away to bring back more.

*

Luna shows up, speaking with complete lucidity, and it takes Percy forty minutes to figure out she’s been half-Oblivated.

“I’ve always very much liked unbuttered toast,” she tells Percy. “It’s such an easy treat, and I like dry foods.”

He wonders what it means that Luna being lucid terrifies him about the state of the war.

*

“We have to expand your back room,” Lupin says. “Everyone’s absolutely up to their necks.”

Percy doesn’t mention he hasn’t slept in three days. He drinks a vial of Pepper-Up, passes a vial to Lupin, and they set to work. When they’re finished, they have twenty-seven beds, but Percy can tell by the dimness of Lupin’s eyes it’s not enough.

*

Draco comes back again, leaves three satchels of shrunken potions, and apparates out before Percy can even ask him for the password.

*

Minerva pings him in the microwave one morning. “They’re coming.”

Percy double-wards the shields and makes everyone who isn’t unconscious grab someone who is. “Go anywhere,” he orders. “Anywhere safe. We’ll find you.”

Everyone disapparates, and Percy starts to make a cup of tea. He makes sure to knock it over when he hears the crackling hiss of the Death Eaters trying to get through the shielding spells. He makes sure he looks scared when he apparates as one reaches for his shirt.

*

He apparates onto a rooftop. When he turns around, Neville throws him a bag of supplies. “We run,” Neville says before Percy can ask. “We’ll help who we can.”

*

Colin Creevy blinks at them when Percy and Neville roll him over. “Oh, hello,” he says. “Have we met?”

Neville thinks to take the film from his camera. Percy gives Colin a biscuit, confirms he’s been Oblivated, and tells him he’s dreaming.

“Crazy dream,” Colin says. “It had all this magic.”

*

They decide to split up after a week. “Our odds of survival improve if we travel independently,” Percy tells Neville as they stand on a different rooftop watching Death Eaters blow out the windows of a Muggle residential area. “If we don’t know where anyone is, they can’t get information from us.”

Neville squints as a Death Eater sets a two-story house ablaze. “You’re right.” He shakes Percy’s hand. “Can we do anything for your arm?”

“No,” Percy answers, curling his right hand into a fist to stop the tremors. “There’s no time for that, now.”

“Good luck,” Neville says and apparates away before Percy can reply.

*

Katie Bell’s body is dumped in the middle of London. The Muggle police have no leads. Percy stands near the back of the crowd and forces down the urge to be sick.

*

He runs into Shacklebolt by chance, noticing him from across the room in a cheap, greasy restaurant.

“You’re Alan and Matilda’s boy, aren’t you?” Shacklebolt asks as he sits at Percy’s table. “You look exactly like your father.”

Percy plays along, and they manage to get halfway through their meal before the front window blows in, and the Death Eaters step over the rubble.

*

The Muggle newspapers say it’s a new terrorist cell. Percy watches men and women on a television in a department store talk about whom to blame. Percy curls into his sweater and flinches when the salesperson asks if he needs help.

*

There’s eerie calm for two days. Percy hides away in a hotel room with a loaf of bread and some sliced ham. An owl lands on the windowsill with a note tied to its leg:

_It’s happening_.

Percy eats a sandwich and drinks water from a crinkly plastic cup. He waits for relief or elation or terror.

*

Charlie finds him four days later. Percy’s hunched over a cup of tea at a chain coffeeshop and only looks up when he recognizes the boots as dragonhide. “Hullo,” Percy says. He rubs at his eyes with his left hand and keeps his right hand tight around his mug. “It’s over?”

“It’s over,” Charlie tells him and sits down hard. He reaches for Percy’s cup, pulls a vial out of his pocket, and upends it into Percy’s tea. “From Draco and Severus. They say it won’t stop the shakes, but it should lessen them considerably. I asked why they couldn’t make it strong enough to stop them, and I got twenty minutes on dosages and being an idiot.”

“Thank you,” Percy says and gulps the rest of his tea. “Is everyone all right?”

“Surprisingly, yes. Fred fell off a cliff, but I got Henrietta to catch him.”

“Henrietta?”

“One of the Horntails.” Charlie flags down a young man in a green apron and gives him a friendly smile. “I know I’m supposed to wait at the counter, but I’m absolutely knackered, and I tip really well. Could I get a blackberry tea for me and a refill for my brother?”

The young man looks skeptical until Charlie hands him a twenty pound note. “Of course.”

“Great.” Charlie puts his attention back on Percy. “I was with the twins near Hogwarts. Bill and Lupin were being sneaky elsewhere. Ginny met up with Marcus Flint, and I think they’re responsible for a small explosion of trees east of Manchester, not that Ginny’s taking credit. We’re still waiting for Ron, but we got an owl saying he’s safe. Mum sent me to find you, and here I am.”

“I’ve been running,” Percy says.

“You did it well,” Charlie replies. “You’re still here. Mum and Dad have been pacing for days.”

“I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Saturday.”

“Oh.” Percy starts when the young man in the green apron puts a fresh cup of tea in front of him. “Thank you.” He blinks and sits up straighter. “Should we be talking about all of this?” He asks, the fog of his mind suddenly clearing. He wonders if Draco and Severus spiked his potion.

“The Muggle Prime Minister plans to make a general announcement,” Charlie says with a grimace. “As soon as we choose a new Minister of Magic.”

Percy blinks. “What? Why?”

“Because hundreds of Muggles died this time,” Charlie says matter-of-factly. “They used them whenever they could.”

Percy thinks of Oliver in his silver-studded belt and of all the people he saw in Muggle clothes. “I know some of it,” he says into his tea. “I heard some reports.”

“And it’s either admit it was Voldemort or let people think terrorists are trying to kill them.”

“Telling them magic is real and one of ours was trying to kill them won’t go over any more easily.”

“No,” Charlie agrees with a grimace, “but better the ugly truth than an ugly lie.”

Percy considers that. “I suppose.”

Charlie finishes his tea and stands up. “Come on. Mum and Dad are waiting for us before they serve dinner.”

*

Ron shows up halfway through dinner, Harry and Hermione in tow. He grumbles when Molly hugs him and sits next to Percy before reaching for the potatoes. “You look like hell,” Ron greets.

Percy raises his eyebrows at the incredibly vivid bruises that practically cover Ron’s face. “Haven’t been sleeping,” he answers blandly. “You, on the other hand, are the picture of health, despite having walked into—and this is just a broad guess—several walls and a lamp post.”

Ron grins. “Hey, Perce.”

“Hi, Ron.”

*

Percy sleeps for seventeen hours. When he finally wakes up and walks downstairs, he finds Minerva and Shacklebolt sitting at the kitchen table. “Hullo,” Percy greets and tries to flatten his hair.

“Percy,” Minerva replies with a nod. Kingsley merely raises a hand. “We’re very happy to see you up and around.”

“Thank you,” Percy says. He pours a cup of tea and sits across from the both of them. “How’s your leg?” He asks Kingsley.

“Completely healed, thank you. The Healers at St. Mungo’s were impressed with your tourniquet. Apparently, they rarely get to see Muggle medicine.”

“Happy to broaden their horizons, I suppose.” Percy raises his eyebrows when Minerva pulls out a piece of parchment and lays it on the table. “And this is?”

“The list of the missing. I thought you’d like to see it.”

Percy unrolls the parchment and reads the list slowly. “Everyone else is accounted for?” he asks as he sets the list aside.

“We have a few people handling clean up,” Minerva holds up a hand when Percy opens his mouth. “No, you may not,” she says flatly, “because we need your help in a different capacity.”

“I’ve been named Minister of Magic,” Shacklebolt says.

“Congratulations,” Percy says sincerely. “That’s wonderful news.”

“Thank you. I came to see you because I need a secretary,” Shacklebolt replies, sitting up straighter and leaning against the table.

Percy blinks. “I think they’re called assistants now.”

Shacklebolt looks taken aback for a moment. “I need a Secretary of Wizard/Muggle relations,” he explains.

“Oh.” Percy takes a sip of his tea. “Wouldn’t you prefer someone Muggle-born?”

“Seamus Finnigan has already accepted his position,” Kingsley says, “but I want wizards from both backgrounds.”

“I see.” Percy looks at Minerva. She’s smiling. Shacklebolt is looking at him expectantly. “My previous experience with the Ministry was very negative,” Percy says after a moment. “Some of it my own doing, but some of it the doing of the people for whom I worked.”

“It’s an entirely new Ministry,” Shacklebolt says. “It has to be. The original blew up.”

Percy smiles a little. “That is true.” He sips his tea again. “What would I be doing?”

“You’d be handling relations between Muggles and the wizarding world. Once the news comes out about us, I expect we’ll see quite a bit of reactionary anger.”

“That is a very polite assessment, Kingsley,” Minerva interjects.

“It will be an uphill climb,” Shacklebolt says seriously, “but it’s a climb worth taking.”

“I accept.” Percy holds out his hand to Shacklebolt. They shake. “When do we start?”

“It will be a few weeks, yet,” Shacklebolt says with a smile. “Once the loose ends are tied off, we’ll have a good place to start.”

“What do we have left?” Percy asks.

“More than enough,” Minerva says with a tired sigh. “But it’s not your concern for the moment. You need time to rest.”

“I can help,” Percy argues.

“You’ll about to be a cabinet secretary for the Ministry, Percy,” Minerva says with a smile. “Take a few days off.”

*

Draco apparates in just as Molly is carrying the bread to the table. “There you are,” she says in the same way she always greets her children. “Wash your hands before you sit down.”

Percy shares a confused look with Ron, Ginny, and the twins. Bill and Charlie seem completely nonplussed.

Draco sits down next to Charlie as Arthur walks in the backdoor from his shed. “Good to see you, son,” he says and clasps Draco’s shoulder.

Percy watches the twins have a conversation with their eyebrows and knows they’re about to cause some sort of fuss. “Draco,” he says as Fred opens his mouth, “I wanted to thank you for the potion you sent along with Charlie. It worked wonderfully.”

“You’re lucky you’re left-handed, or you’d have been in bigger trouble,” Draco replies as he snaps out his napkin and places it in his lap. “I’ll be here in the morning to reassess your arm and adjust your dosage.”

“We’re having breakfast at nine,” Molly says. “I can keep a plate warm if you’ll be later.”

“Nine is fine.” Draco’s cutting into his roast beef like it’s going to fight back.

George opens his mouth, but Charlie talks over his first syllable. “I heard Shacklebolt came to see you, Perce. Congratulations.”

Percy flushes a little. “Thank you. It’s a very good opportunity.”

“You’ve earned it,” Charlie tells him sincerely.

“What are you doing?” Ginny asks Percy as George tries to say something again.

“I am going to be a liaison between Muggles and wizards once we tell them about us.”

Ginny’s brow wrinkles. “I thought Seamus was asked to do that job.”

“We’re going to split duties,” Percy tells her. “I’m wizard-born with Muggle experience, and he’s Muggle-born with wizard experience, so we both have our strengths.”

“We’re very proud of you, Percy,” Molly says as Fred opens his mouth. “I’m proud of all of you, of course,” she continues, and everyone at the table—Draco included, Percy notices—smiles. “But especially of you tonight, dear. It’s a great compliment, and you’ll do wonderfully.”

“I wonder what the new Ministry will be like,” Draco says more to this fork and knife than to the table.

“I’d like a bigger office,” Arthur says with a wistful sigh. “Or at least some storage. We never had storage.”

“We’re still scrambling to find the duplicate copies of some of our more obscure curses at Gringotts,” Bill adds. “We had copies of everything, of course, but the goblins are loathe to give non-goblins replacements on anything seeing as it was wizards who blew up the bank.”

“We’re not working for the Minstry or Gringotts,” Fred says, looking proud he’s finally managed to get into the conversation. “So we’re great.”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes will re-open as soon as the shop is repaired,” George adds, “and we don’t have to go through anyone to get our recipes.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, scratching his chin, “I think your mother still has a few of your more death-defying ideas tucked away somewhere.”

“And you still don’t get them back,” Molly says when Fred and George turn to her. “Now eat your dinner.”

*

A Muggle reporter demands that Kingsley prove it. Kingsley turns his microphone into a replica of Big Ben and then transfigures it into a microphone again. “Any other questions?” He asks, a slight twinkle in his eyes.

Percy winces when the reporters start yelling.

*

Percy learns the pain of a Muggle invention known as 24-hour news, and spends too many hours watching different, red-faced Muggles call wizards dangerous, unnatural, and sneaky. One or two of them concede that maybe not all wizards were going to ruin the world, but then they’d always talk about the Muggle deaths in the war and the cycle would repeat again.

“Hell,” Seamus says from across the office. His desk is already cluttered with memos and a scattering of pictures. “I really thought telling them we had a whole system of government set up for wizards would help.”

“Not to mention the schools,” Percy says with a sigh. His desk is carefully organized with only a picture of his family to make it personal. “It’ll calm down,” he tells Seamus.

“Right after someone takes a boot to the head,” Seamus replies darkly. He runs his hands through his hair and stands up. “Going to go walk this off.” He clicks off the tv set as he leaves.

Percy leans back in his chair and listens to Seamus mumble to himself as he walks up and down the hall. The new Ministry is only twelve days old, and they’re the only ones on the hallway for the moment. Percy wonders where Seamus will pace when they get neighbors.

“Well, I’ll be damned; Percy Weasley at a desk and not working.”

Percy snaps out of his thoughts and blinks a few times at Oliver, who’s leaning against his doorjamb and looking completely relaxed. “Oliver?”

“Last I checked.” Oliver steps into the office and pulls Percy into a hug when Percy tries to offer a handshake. “It is ridiculously good to see you.”

“It’s…it’s good to see you,” Percy replies, slightly stunned. He smoothes his robes when Oliver steps away and fumbles for something to say. “Where have you been?” He finally asks, and winces when he hears how sharp it comes out.

“Around,” Oliver says and runs a hand along the left side of his hair. There’s a pure black streak that wasn’t there before, Percy realizes. The leftover of some terrible hex that missed Oliver by a literal hair’s-breadth.

“You’ve been busy,” Percy says, eyeing the streak. “Can I ask?”

“All I can say is that it’s stuff for the Ministry,” Oliver tells him. “Messy, messy stuff. Involving fugitives.” He grimaces then shakes his head like he’s dislodging a fly. “And I think I’ve technically said too much. Anyway, I was just stopping in to check in with the Aurors, and Ginny mentioned that you were down here, so I wanted to say hello.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Percy says and wants to kick himself for his blandness. “That isn’t—” He bites down on his lip when Oliver breaks into an amused smile. “Fancy a drink?” Percy asks, surprised when he realizes he’s said it.

Oliver blinks, obviously surprised as well. Then he smiles. “Absolutely.”

Percy looks at his desk and listens to Seamus as he makes another trek of the hallway. “Seamus!” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

“I’m skipping early.”

Seamus pokes his head back into the office. “You’re wh—oh, hey, Oliver.”

“Seamus,” Oliver greets with a nod. “How’s things?”

“Exhausting,” Seamus says with a roll of his eyes. “You’re skipping?” He asks Percy.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No. Shocked? Yes.”

Before Percy can explain to Seamus that working his appointed hours does not make him some kind of oddity, Oliver has him by the elbow and is leading him out the door.

“I’m a little surprised you’re leaving, too,” Oliver tells Percy as they get on the elevator. “I mean, you do have a full fifteen minutes before you’re off the clock. You should be aligning paper clips or carefully rearranging your pencils.”

Percy laughs before he can stop himself. “And you should be on a Quidditch pitch trying not to get bludgeoned.”

“It’ll be another year before Quidditch picks up,” Oliver tells him. “Everyone’s still trying to put everything to rights. But Puddlemere wants me back if I still want it.”

“Is it even a question?” Percy asks with a grin.

“Of course not,” Oliver replies.

*

They go to a Muggle pub. A few people give Percy’s dark green robes a hard look, but the bartender takes their orders without asking questions.

“I think they don’t like you,” Oliver says, waving cheerily at a couple who are still staring.

“They’re scared,” Percy says with a shrug. “They’ll come to terms with things.”

“The _Prophet_ says there’s been some altercations,” Oliver tells him.

“The _Prophet_ says a lot of things,” Percy replies. “What they’re calling “altercations” are actually people just yelling. Everyone who’s come to the Ministry with questions has been about as polite as you can expect, given the circumstances.”

“They hate you on the telly,” Oliver argues.

“From what I can tell, everyone on the telly hates everyone.”

Oliver chuckles. “I noticed that, too.” He nods to the bartender when he sets down their drinks. “Thanks, mate,” he says.

The bartender gives them both a measuring look. “You’re one of those wizards,” he says to Percy.

“We both are,” Percy replies, pointing a thumb at Oliver. “I’ve just come from work.”

“That your uniform?” The bartender asks, eyeing Percy’s dark green robe.

“Yes, sir. I work at the Ministry of Magic.”

“Hmmm,” the bartender hums. He walks away to talk to someone else at the bar.

“Be honest,” Oliver says quietly, “did that scare the hell out of you?”

Percy tucks his right hand into the pocket of his robe. “A bit, yes.”

“Thought it was just me.”

*

Oliver sees him to the field near the Burrow and before Percy can say goodnight, he kisses him on the mouth. “War’s over,” he says when Percy just blinks at him in a daze. “I’m going to date you now.”

It takes a few more seconds for Percy to catch up. “I suppose it is.” He kisses Oliver firmly on the mouth and smiles when Oliver puts a hand on his waist. “I look forward to it.”


End file.
